


In This Eternal Reverie

by DriftingGlass



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Action/Adventure, Advanced Idea Mechanics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Apocalypse, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blood and Gore, Character Development, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dystopia, Emotional Manipulation, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Ghouls, Gonkillu - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Killugon - Freeform, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Social Commentary, Violence, mutations, radiation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 14:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DriftingGlass/pseuds/DriftingGlass
Summary: The world has ended.The wealthy and privileged are stationed in underground Sanctuaries, helmed by a series of overseers under the control and ownership of what's left of the Zoldyck family.Killua has always loathed his place as a survivor under his older brother's control.He longs for something different in a world lost to radiation, dangerous monsters and internal corruption at every turn.He never expected his life to take a swandive upon meeting Gon Freecss, a sharpshooting adrenaline junkie with a soul far darker than the amber gold of his eyes. He has secrets, and Killua wants to know them all.And perhaps, Killua will discover that he's never learned to live (or love) quite like this.





	1. Weathered Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shawnathin93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shawnathin93/gifts).



> SURPRISE SURPRISE. 
> 
> This project was borne out of a personal challenge I made for myself a couple months ago. I created a playlist first, and then came up with the concept for this and outlined it outside of writing my original work for NaNoWriMo. It's a fun challenge to create something outside of my comfort zone, and I was definitely inspired aesthetically by several pieces of art, video games, and books. I've also hinted at this story being constructed in some way, but ultimately kept it a secret!
> 
> And so, with the completion of November and the outline officially DONE, I can surprise my friend with this. :D
> 
> I hope you like this, Shawn! 
> 
> Thanks guys and I hope you enjoy this new KilluGon fic!

The photograph was dry as bone beneath his fingers.

Killua clicked his tongue, a crease forming in the middle of his brow as he swept his thumb over the surface. He brushed away dust and grime, uncovering the smiling faces of a man and a woman—early thirties, forties, he wasn’t entirely sure with the lack of wrinkles and blood flecks—their hushed whispers and glowing, colorless eyes frozen in another time.

His teeth clenched, noting the details of the panting dog in the picture in front of the couple and a lanky boy, hunched forward, sniveling, too distracted by the wheat fields around him to look directly into the camera. A windmill stood crooked behind them, next to a dilapidated farmhouse with the faint outline of a scarecrow waving from over the man’s shoulder.

“Hey, did you find anything?”

Killua snapped out of his thinking and calmly slipped the photograph into his sleeve. He brushed one hand down his jumpsuit and clicked the button on his watch. A film of blue light ghosted through the thick wall of dust and ash. With a grunt, he tilted his head back and brushed on the lenses of his goggles.

“Scanner’s not picking up any radiation,” he said.

He pivoted on his heel and surveyed the rest of the room.

A cracked television set, an emptied refrigerator with giant gash marks ripping apart the doors, and paintings weathered and peeling hung loosely on the walls.

The room reeked of must and mildew, and with each step they took further into the area, dust particles kicked up and clung to their gear.

The entire house—like every other property they scavenged for resources in the Burnside—was at least fifty years old in itself, and too ragged to harvest for anything. No hecklers or bandits were close to this patch of farmland, and he’d patrolled the premises with enough thorough meandering for the combined efforts of at least ten half-brained men.

“Nothing yet. Doubt any of this would be useful in the Sanctuary.”

His fellow scavenger, Ikalgo, with his overly broad shoulders and thickset, short frame, had barely managed to even hobble after Killua fast enough to make it to this point on their selected property. Bushy eyebrows rose to his hairline, barely noticeable past the enormous goggles strapped over his face and the mask binding his mouth. When he turned his neck, the frayed collar of his jumpsuit barely concealed the mammalian scarlet scales that trailed in patterns on scarred human skin.

Ikalgo leaned down to the ruined couch ripped apart in front of them, clearly the product of an infected beast or two in the area— _wild dogs, most likely,_ Killua thought—and stood back up in one fell swoop.

“Something was here. Doesn’t look like any Ants came by, though.”

Killua smirked. “Guess you would know.”

His friend chuckled, the sound scattered and muffled behind his mask.

“Fuck off.”

Killua latched his scanner on his belt and moved closer to the shattered windows on the other side of the room.

Outside, the Burnside glowed scarlet beneath the sun—miles and miles of gravel and dust that stretched and turned red as brick.

A tractor was sitting frozen on what little remained of the once-flourishing cornfield: a skeletal structure of rusted machinery and missing parts. Withered cornstalks and wheat fronds were still beneath the tempered heat, like bony fingers reaching out from the earth.

He wondered what this place would have looked like under a blue sky.

Killua looked away and rubbed at his goggles.

Ikalgo’s grunts diverted Killua’s attention. “Killua, you alright there? Think we should head out soon if we can’t find anything of use here. Was worth checking out though.”

Killua grinned. Despite his faults and less than ideal performances in other scavenging hunts, Ikalgo was loyal, and Killua would rather have him as his partner in their selected expeditions than any two-faced fucker who kissed his brother’s feet.

“Sure, sure. Illumi might shit himself if we don’t get back soon anyway.”

Killua removed a stocky rectangular device from his belt, the screen bright green and blinking with a yellow dot in the far corner. Code numbers tore across the screen as he pressed and danced his fingers on the glass, a sigh leaving him after a few minutes of pandering.

“We’ll report to Bisky that this area isn’t worth checking in this cycle. Not much we can do if there aren’t any resources after all in our limits.”

“Shouldn’t we mark this place up, then?”

Ikalgo hobbled over to the fireplace in the living room. Tall ceramic vases coated in cobwebs and littered with frayed leaves lined the top shelf, the lip jutting out over an iron grating. Ikalgo ducked in and out in one quick motion, shrugging towards Killua for his verdict.

“I mean; it doesn’t even look like any rad-beasts were here. Other than… you know, the gigantic claw marks on their fridge.”

Killua snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think even mutant Ants would mess with that.”

Ikalgo paused for a moment, and shrugged.

They didn’t say anything else to each other after that.

It was a routine they rehearsed often in each other’s presence whenever they were ordered to leave the Sanctuary and scout their border of the Burnside. The numbers of patrols were growing with how difficult it was to find resources in the pilfered trailer parks, farmlands and broken-down villages and city camps. Survivors—government loyalists who denied the Sanctuaries never thrived for long in the wastes, especially in Burnside.

It was ludicrous to think that anyone would live long in a land that turned hot as coals while animals and humans infected with incurable diseases stalked the premises.

Day and night blended together in one long stretch of scorching heat and frigid cold, finding less and less balance the older Killua grew.

It wasn’t uncommon for him to overhear speculations on what the Burnside would look like in the Sanctuary cafeteria. _Monsters, androids and bandits and women_ were rather common assumptions, based on theories of lizards growing taller than buildings and sprouting wings and horns.

Bandits and thieves wearing golden grills on their teeth and claiming some ownership in the decrepit cities. Androids seen as useless, sniveling machines who abided only by coded commands and no will of their own.

And women—well, from what Killua gathered in the numerous times he’d walked back and forth on his lonesome in the Sanctuary’s sterilized halls, he knew the female demographic outside the vaults were seen as sex-depraved maniacs who wanted to suck every cock shoved in front of their faces.

The culprits were almost always gossiping young bloods, still inexperienced and fresh-faced in their color-coded jumpsuits, not a fleck of grime or dirt on them. It was typical and almost comical with how Killua was able to predict which new face or transferred resident would theorize what the outside was like.

But he had _seen_ the Burnside.

He’d witnessed the depraved and the starving and the dead. The wiry thin bodies of scavengers and raiders, eyes bloodshot and armor thick and made from their own belongings.

He’d blasted heads off shoulders with barely the skin on his back, fingers going from trembling around the triggers to freezing in preparation. He’d tugged clumps of flesh, mucus and blood out of his hair in the showers. He’d pressed his back in the tunnels between vaults, his heart racing at an unfathomable pace while shooting each ghoul that escaped their traps and barriers.

He’d held back and watched other residents in the Sanctuary die, their organs ripped straight out of their suits, weapons snapping in brutish hands and the life draining from their eyes—

Killua shook his head. Sweat built on the back of his neck.

He supposed he would have to deal with more ignorance as soon as he and Ikalgo stepped back into the Sanctuary with their less-than-impressive report.

They trailed on the route that led back to the main quarry, past crumbled structures of concrete, wood and dusted ground that were once houses and stores. They were close, an eerie silence drifting between Killua and Ikalgo as their boots clanked onto crushed pebble and flecks of spare metal and wire. Killua rolled his shoulders, his back tense and coiled like a spring.

As soon as they returned, he would have to fill out paperwork on their botched luck and explain to his brother, the Sanctuary warden, that nothing of use could be traced for energy or weapons.

“Think they’ll be mad that we’re heading back with bad news?”

Killua rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. We followed the coordinates and did our job. It’s not going to be perfect every time.”

At this point, all he wanted was an uninterrupted rest of their trek back to the Sanctuary, and a shower.

He thought of the farm, of the scarecrow still standing tall and useless years after the family perished. He considered how profitable and respected that land probably was.

Would the mother have baked apple pies in summer under a cloudless sky and in the company of her husband and son? Did they run away from the first aether storm when they were broadcast on every station? Did they consider swallowing their pride and finding new life underground with the Sanctuaries?

 _No_.

Killua swallowed.

He knew the answer to all of those questions.

The folded photograph he’d plucked off the dusted floorboards was like an ember in a pile of ash. It was impossible to think about it and not consider the history and secrets that would never be divulged, lingering on the sleek surface like a layer of fog.

Ikalgo broke the silence with a cleared throat.

“So, I saw you pick up that photograph back there.”

Killua blinked, close to fumbling over his steps. He laughed, muffled through his mask and quickly looking away from his companion’s searching stare.

“It won’t be a problem. No one should care if I pick up a souvenir or two.”

Ikalgo snorted at that.

“Sure, sure. Don’t complain to me when Krueger rips you a new one.”

Killua only hummed in response, keeping his gaze glued ahead of them. Past the dips and slopes of the barren turf and bony trees, the Sanctuary would stick out like the head of a metal worm seeking escape from its rocky prison.

He doubted that anyone in the Sanctuary, including his own brother—that slimy snake bastard—would have any interest in the affairs of the dead.

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

The office was a cubicle of cool metal tile and faded posters of comic book heroes strung about the walls. Even now, decades after their last issues were published, their heroic smiles glistened irreverently on colored paper, like poor imitations of tapestries. Crates filled with old and new desk supplies crammed the corners, stacked on top of each other in makeshift towers. A single fan whirled monotonously from the ceiling, the artificial air tasting of cleaning fluids and days-old perfume.

Killua tapped his foot on the floors to a beat of a song he’d heard in the bunkers.

The short, blond woman situated at the desk was tapping furiously away on a plane of touchscreen glass. Her manicured nails flicked over the keys, large mahogany eyes focused and mocking as they assessed the words popping up on the much older computer monitor stationed next to her typing space. Her white blouse was buttoned to the collar, long blond hair swept keenly in a high ponytail.

“You’re late, Zoldyck.”

Killua snorted, the door sliding closed behind him.

“Chill, Krueger. A five-minute shower isn’t going to stop the clock.”

He rolled his eyes and pulled back a chair, rolling up the sleeves of his gray jumpsuit, smelling faintly of detergent and what little sanitizing supplies were left in the showers.

Bisky Krueger flicked one eye at him, her posture unmoving from her monitor. Her finger moved experimentally on the glass keys, carving a long, bluish line.

“The last time you said that you ended up breaking another scout’s legs in the Burnside and almost losing your tongue. All for, what, rad-beast samples?” She snorted. “You may be tough, Killua, but not enough to outweigh your stupidity.” She looked him over once, her gaze more scrutinizing than a hawk’s. “Hm. Well, at least you won’t give any of the doctors trouble today. Ikalgo already came by and let me know of your inability to find anything _useful_.”

Killua shrugged, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other.

“Not sure if I need to be here then, if Ikalgo already covered it.”

Bisky sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, brat, I’d like to think I’m a patient person.” She scowled at Killua’s scoff. “But, I’m not the only _authoritative asshole_ , as you so eloquently put it, that you’re answering to. We put people like you up in the Burnside to find resources for research, for chances of a better future—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ve heard this spiel a billion times.” He stared up at the ceiling, feigning disinterest. “You seem to forget who my brother is.”

Bisky considered this. “I don’t forget. But I think you do, quite a lot.” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, should’ve been harder on you during boot camp…”

Killua blinked owlishly. It would be impossible for him to forget those rigorous hours sprinting in the training sector, sporting gnarly bruises and cuts that were far worse when compared to the other young bloods who didn’t understand the important of combat and technique.

Bisky Krueger always snapped her baton on one hand and called him reckless, disobedient, even—yet he was clearly the best and accumulated the top scores for a reason. For reasons aside from being related to the Sanctuary Warden.

Responding to whistled commands and lifting weights until his muscles burst were only comparable to the rigorous written exams that each Sanctuary resident were required to partake in. Bisky had never overseen those tests, after passing off her stamped scores for Killua three years prior, when he still sported the same gray jumpsuits as every other resident, wondering if his prodigious talents would launch him to the front of every test run into the Burnside.

He would never forget the overwhelming stench of rotten flesh flooding his nostrils, blood welling under his fingernails and watching—too shocked, too frozen to scream—as the life bled from his comrades’ eyes.

 _Irises glazed over, mouths open, panicked voices crumbling to nothing beneath razor-sharp teeth, claws and muscular tendons tearing and ripping apart limb upon limb upon limb_ —

His knuckles blanched, gripping the fabric clothing his knees.

_One. Two. Three. Four…_

His chest deflated. His pulse was still racing.

“Training us harder wouldn’t have changed what happened that day,” said Killua.

Bisky paused in her typing. He felt the tension roll over his shoulders, even with the short, intimidating woman turned away from him, her glossed lips tightly pursed.

“We can’t change the past, no. Maybe it would have done something for your attitude, though. Being a consistent top-scorer won’t guarantee you success in the Burnside, or even other territories once we expand.” Bisky fixed another look onto him, one eyebrow quirked. “You’re panicking.”

Killua straightened, lips curled in the corners. “Mm, no. Not yet.” He carded a hand through his hair, strands soft and white and freshly scented for once. “Are we done here? Since you seem to be typing up Ikalgo’s report anyway…”

Bisky tilted her head. “Yes. We’re done.” She rolled her eyes and resumed tapping on the glass keys. “Brat.”

Killua moved from the chair, slipping his hands into his pockets and turning cleanly on his heel. He motioned to the door, longing for the emptied, hallowed presence of the hallways and the lack of enclosed space like this very office—

“Oh, one more thing.”

Killua grit his teeth, his shoes squeaking audibly on the tiles.

“Let me guess, my older brother has nothing better to do than to ask questions through you?” He clicked his tongue and smirked over his shoulder, expecting to see Bisky at least admit to this notion.

However, she shook her head and stood up from her seat, brushing her hands over her blouse and skirt.

“I was actually going to appoint you in leading the physical preliminaries, since you’re so confident in your prowess.” She smirked, the whimsical glint unmissable. Killua held back a groan at the implication. “What, too skilled to handle a bunch of whining fresh meat transferring in? From what I recall, you were no better when you first arrived here, cocky fucker as you were.”

Killua snorted. “And you think I’d be a good teacher, somehow?”

“No. Not in the slightest.” Bisky’s smirk only grew. “Wasn’t my idea.”

Killua ignored the subtle press of goosebumps rising on his arms.

“Figures.” He licked his lips. “Whatever. If Illumi wants me to take time out of scouting to babysit, then he can talk to me directly. I’m not a child.”

Bisky only shrugged in response. “Then you should be the one to tell him.”

Killua held back a mocking laugh, stepping out of her office door and pressing the appropriate keys for the metal to slide shut. He ignored her unwavering stare through the long two-way windowpane that showed the interior of her office from the hallway, and strolled down the corridor.

His shoulders tensed up further with each step, the muscles in his back coiling and uncoiling like broken wheels.

He bypassed several curious stares.

Casual heads flicked over to him, some donned in jumpsuits ranging from red, to burnt orange, to dark green and gray. Sleeves imprinted with numbers as their definitive labels. Some wore goggles hanging around their necks. Some sported shiny new utility belts with twisting gears, fake blasters and guns. Laughter and casual conversation bounced off in currents.

There were many pairs of eyes attached to people Killua would never bother addressing unless it was required for a mission into the Burnside, miles and miles aboveground and past winding tunnels, elevators, and rustic controls that should have stopped working by the time he’d turned twelve.

He swiped his tongue along the roof of his mouth; he hadn’t had any water since he’d returned from his mission with Ikalgo.

Grumbling, he turned on his heel and exited down the fourth corridor—one of eight that comprised this particular Sanctuary—and kept his head high and eyes near-closed to avoid the curious whispers and expectant stares that glued to his back and movements like flies drowning in honey.

Two younger boys in white tank tops and jumpsuit bottoms stopped in their card game to stare. One of them hushed the other, frantically waving his cards.

“Shut up, man! That’s Killua Zoldyck!”

The other boy sputtered, a trembling hand brushing back his blond cowlick.

“A-Are you sure?”

“Obviously! Who else looks that freaky pale? He’s the Warden’s spoiled brother…”

Killua trudged forward, blocking out the gossip with skill acquired over years of practice.

_Always the same._

He suppressed a snort.

He stopped in front of a vent, explosions of color and old propaganda from outside the Sanctuary—long before the first Aether Wave in 2008—splashed on the metal folds.

He recognized the dancing logo of a yellow robot spitting out balls of chocolate and the image of a cartoonish red dog drinking a bottle of its own product.

Humming, Killua pressed the required buttons, and wasted no time to talk to the curious onlookers who came over to his side as he swiped a glass bottle of soda, uncorked the cap and immediately pressed it to his lips.

He tilted his head back and savored the carbonated liquid sliding down his throat.

“Ah, Killua. Just the trainee I was looking for.”

Killua groaned, capping the bottle. “What do you want, Knov?”

The thin, wiry man addressed him with a glint in his infuriatingly perfect glasses. He stood a foot taller than Killua, his suit far too pristine with the lack of evidence of even attempting to leave the Sanctuary’s walls and walk about the dusted, scorched surface of the Burnside. His ivory skin was untouched from the scarlet sun, fingernails smooth and curved, his smiles too pearly and combed raven hair as sleek as silk.

Killua believed he should have felt guiltier, for comparing Knov to Illumi.

“I’m not a trainee,” Killua said. “Pretty sure I’ve been leading expeditions for a couple years, now, right?” He shrugged. “I just got back and Ikalgo and I couldn’t find anything in the area where you told us to look. I don’t think we should even go back in that territory anymore, since the Ants will start showing up again soon.”

Knov hummed at this, flicking through the stack of papers clipped in his hands.

“That may be so,” he said, “but this is about the next conference. You are required to go, whether or not you passed the exams and have, under technical terms, _graduated_ or not. I expect you to be there to listen to the upcoming changes in our expedition plans.”

Killua blinked. He leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other.

“I’m listening.”

Knov rolled his eyes. “That’s a first…” He sighed as he flipped through the documents in his hands, until finally he reached the one he was looking for.

He removed it, and held it out to Killua. The teen eyed it with a risen eyebrow, glancing back up to Knov’s blank, yet expectant, stare.

“What’s this for?” He asked, taking the paper in his hands and running over the fine black print. “Since when do we have plans like this?”

Knov shrugged. “It was your brother’s decision, to begin taking in prisoners.”

Killua grip around the sheet of paper intensified.

There were many admittedly solid plans that led to the Zoldyck Sanctuaries being established, saving thousands of lives in the process. The tunnels that led to various bunkers, makeshift botanical gardens, medical facilities and gymnasiums were continuing to be additional benefits to the shelters.

Though, the residents who swore intense fealty to his older brother, the current Warden and successor to their deceased father’s impressive accomplishment, would never dare question any wrongdoings in the Sanctuaries and their functionality. Killua had spent enough hours plucking out vegetables from the botanical gardens and cleaning rust out of sewer pipes to understand the workload given to all residents, including those presumed to be “royalty.”

His tongue curled at the word. It was too medieval.

“So, where are they from?” he asked, holding back the bite he wanted to give.

Knov gestured vaguely to the rest of the chamber.

“You will find out in the conference chamber. Be there in one hour’s time.” He pulled his watch up in front of him, glaring down at the ticking device. “The Warden will want you present.”

“Ah, what a surprise.” Killua crumpled up the paper in his hand, watching in vindictive satisfaction at the way Knov chewed on his lip at the gesture. “Guessing he’ll be standing at that plastered podium, pretending to be our father. Or some semblance of him.”

If he were still oblivious and twelve, he would have scoffed at the thought.

Illumi was always the most gifted, though not the most loved—his mother and father never acknowledged the eldest the same way they viewed him. Trusting the rising technological empire—founded on research leading to the first Aether Wave in 2008—onto Killua would have led to disaster.

However, even so, it was impossible for him to feel grateful for the responsibility being yanked from his side.

Illumi was a well-respected and hailed figure in the Sanctuaries, and even with the rest of their family gone—

Killua clenched his teeth. A swallow threatened to choke back the words he wanted to say.

“If it’ll stop him from bothering me,” muttered Killua, “then fine. I guess I’ll be there.” He tossed the ball of paper up in his hand. The crinkled material flounced on his skin, almost as pale as his own hair. “I have other things I need to do now, though, before this oh-so-important meeting about… prisoners, from I’m assuming outside the Sanctuaries.”

Knov cleared his throat. “Well, the matter concerns dejected members of other Sanctuaries, brought into here out of… speculation, mostly.” He pushed up his glasses. “These particular prisoners are meant to be questioned and tried for their actions both outside their residential Sanctuaries and within.”

Killua’s nose scrunched up at this.

“You’re saying that they’ve lived outside of the Sanctuary.”

Knov dipped his head, confirming a passing question or two that Killua almost let himself ask. He shrugged and turned away, glaring at the peeling posters hung on the walls and the jumpsuit-clad younger residents scampering by.

It was difficult for him to imagine anyone surviving in the Burnside and beyond. The incredibly unforgiving temperatures, the harsh climate changes, and the inevitable, constant possibility of death through every hour of every day would hardly form a proper living space for anyone.

Marauders and desperate thieves were the only fools he could picture scraping by in the wastes, scurrying like rodents in sewer tunnels with barely any clothing on their backs.

“Anyway,” Knov began, adjusting the stack of clipped folders under the crook of his arm, “it would be unbecoming for you to skip the meeting if it happened to… slip your mind.”

Killua’s lips twitched. “Sure, sure. I’ll be there.”

Even after Knov left, he spared a few glares at the occasional resident who couldn’t stop staring at him, and each time he knew it was through a series of whispered comparisons between him and the Sanctuary Warden.

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

“Even Morel is here,” said Ikalgo, his scaled knuckles burrowing tightly into his fists over his lap.

Killua huffed. “’Course he is. Are you really that surprised to see Knov’s go-to partner in the conference room?”

“Why exactly am I here?” Ikalgo asked, his nerves detectable easily in the air.

It was always amusing, for Killua to deduce just how shaken Ikalgo could be around his brother, but would barely bat an eyelash at an oncoming rad-beast or even a mindless Ant.

“Because I wanted you to suffer through this with me,” said Killua. He stood straighter, stretching his arms above his head and grinning at the popping bones ricocheting down his back.

He’d almost refused to wear the attendee uniform that his mother, when she was alive, had painstakingly sewn together for him in preparation for days like this.

The long-sleeved, collared shirt was pale white and strung through with polished black buttons, offset with the deep black trousers that would have struck anyone as oddly formal and too clean to be present inside an old Sanctuary after the Aether Waves.

His thumbs brushed over the stitching on his right pocket, bearing incongruent threads formed into the shape of a wilted flower. His tongue rolled on the inside of his mouth, a tentative stream of acceptance coiling inside him. His heart thumped, barely audible, hardly felt, even as his skin made contact with the rough square of fabric that was never noticed under his mother’s preening eyes.

Before the first Aether Wave struck, _she_ had always handled the needle over his clothes, her concentration riding on his willingness to trust her. The flower engraved into his pocket was a secret between them, and them alone, and was the last convincing prospect for him to even consider abiding by Knov’s wishes and attending this conference at all.

“This place always seems too clean,” Ikalgo grumbled, scratching his cheek. Strands of dark hair, wet from his shower, Killua presumed, slapped against his cheek. His knee was bobbing up and down, anxiety becoming all the more palpable in the thick, conditioned air. “You know? Like people are somehow… meant to die, or something, inside the walls. Reminds me of the Ant camps, before you found me.”

Killua paused at this. “No Ants here, other than you,” he said, taking a seat beside him and leaning back in his chair. The leather was cool and pliant under him; a cloud of stretchable plastic. “Knov mentioned that prisoners were being brought here from a different Sanctuary. Don’t think that’s ever happened here.”

“Prisoners?” Ikalgo blinked. “Are—you’re sure? That doesn’t make sense. The Warden isn’t exactly open to accepting people like that in our domain, right?”

“Normally he wouldn’t be,” said Killua. “But that’s the only reason I chose to come here.”

Ikalgo nodded at this, closing his mouth and sitting straight in his chair.

This chamber hadn’t changed at all since the first time Killua entered five years ago, clutching the hands of his younger siblings as he followed his parents into the oval room. The walls were suffocating in their thickness, layered over with steel plates and massive tapestries depicting old times long lost—events that, unless you were born into the Zoldyck bloodline, would be entirely uninteresting.

Dozens of booths formed a tight circle around the center, leading to a podium at one end of the room where the appointed overseer would stand. In previous conferences with other Sanctuary overseers, Illumi would stand upon one podium and address each visitor with hardly any actual compliance to what they were complaining about or requesting.

Whether it concerned the shared botanical gardens, the contained kitchens, the underground shooting ranges, or the scholastic curriculum, Illumi was hardly ever agreeable or determined to share what he had. His people were pawns dressed in fine garments and promised pearls upon their graves, and very few happened to bother understanding that the man made of melancholy and monotony was not destined to ever keep his word.

Killua and Ikalgo were the only residents outside of the usual conference present.

Knov, as Killua expected, was standing on the opposite end of the room, dressed even less casual than before with his cuff links and polished glasses.

He was whispering to his companion, a man composed of a wide set of shoulders and skin darker than sun-kissed sandstone. Shoulder-length gray hair swept over his ears, his eyes concealed behind dark, seemingly useless dark spectacles. The tie around his neck was frazzled and forced, hastily put together in what Killua would assume to be a useless attempt to seem at least somewhat professional.

“Morel,” said Ikalgo.

“Yeah, I guessed that,” said Killua. “Think I’ve seen him before. Don’t think he comes into this Sanctuary very often.”

He pushed his elbows up on his knees, resting his chin in his upturned hands. The sight of Knov talking to someone so animatedly was starkly different to what he would expect from the norm.

The doors slid open to the chamber, an echo slicing apart the quiet like a tear through a quilt. Bisky Krueger stepped into the room first, dolled up in lavish silks and her hair swept up in a crowned bun. She immediately made her way to her seat behind Knov and Morel, unusually quiet and avoiding their expectant stares.

Then, a wave of goosebumps assaulted Killua’s skin, snaking a firm trail down his back. He stood straighter, blinking away the beading sweat on his temples and eyelids. He refrained from wiping his brow, glancing about the room as the familiar padding of suede shoes stepped onto the tiled floors—feather-light, and promising nothing but veiled intention.

Illumi Zoldyck was tall and slender, built of hidden cords of muscle that none would notice unless they passed by in the rare moments he was without his overseer’s jacket. Deep black pits for eyes, seemingly ending and beginning nowhere, had rendered Killua speechless and immobile since the day he could walk. Skin paler than fine marble, lips pressed into a pencil-thick line, static in the myriad of possible expressions he could make if it wasn’t obvious that he resembled more of a walking corpse

Though, one defining trait struck Killua wordless in every forced conversation, in every moment he was forced to look up into his brother’s vacant eyes and listen to a command.

Illumi’s long black hair—only ever trimmed, never cut short lest the barber in question wanted their tongue removed—was woven through with one silver braid, taken from their own father’s head.

Killua’s teeth grit. It was impossible for him to look away, to not picture the moment their father drew his last breath, barricading the destroyed doors to the Sanctuary with his body as a makeshift wall—

“Hey, buddy.”

Killua stiffened, blinking. Ikalgo’s rough hands patted repeatedly on his back, providing some sort of human comfort in his stupor.

“Sorry,” he said.

Ikalgo watched him, gaze scrutinizing and concerned, though with his lack of response he removed his hand entirely and settled both in his lap.

Eventually, Illumi approached the podium, jacket buttoned to the top and dark stare noticeable even from the distance where Killua and Ikalgo sat. He remained quiet, the rest of the conference on the other side of the oval room inspecting their fingernails and whispering amongst themselves.

“Why is it so quiet?” Ikalgo muttered, halfway between an outright laugh and a nervous chuckle.

Killua leaned in, hushed. “They usually don’t talk unless someone’s brought in for a meeting or questioning. This is the first time there’s a so-called _prisoner_ being led in.”

His friend dipped his head at this, processing the information with barely a glance at their superiors. Killua rubbed his palms together, impatience and curiosity rubbing his concentration into pieces.

Ten minutes of silence, occasionally broken with the tapping of a finger on metal or a scoff, suddenly erupted into noise as the doors to the chamber slid open once more. The sound of heavy boots slapping onto floors and the familiar rattling of static guns drew Killua’s attention.

Three people were led into the premises, and they’d certainly seen better days.

The first was a crossbred Ant, similar to Ikalgo. He was hunched over, knees bent in the middle and showcasing a strip of green, rainbow-tinted scales. His somewhat narrow human face spread into a reptilian mouth with thick, fleshy eyebrows and large, bulbous yellow eyes. His jumpsuit was a bright red, slashed through with white stripes that would normally indicate someone working in a medicinal division within the Sanctuaries.

“A chameleon,” said Ikalgo, blinking. “He’s—he looks a little human, too.”

Killua nodded, leaning forward in his seat. Standing next to the chameleon Ant was another man—or boy, Killua wasn’t entirely sure—sniffling and sobbing in the same jumpsuit as his companion. His brunette hair was shortened to a buzz-cut, freckled cheeks flushed red and bushy eyebrows wiggling like worms on his forehead.

Both trembled in fear, handcuffs prominently clamped over their wrists, with two hooded guards standing behind them with electrically-powered gloves propped at their backs. Neither of them were recognizable behind the grill-like masks over their features, iron boots clanking heavy and loud on the pastel-white floors.

Killua was not paying attention to them for long, however, due to the rather odd third person standing in the middle of them.

Unlike the Ant or the younger boy, he stood with an air of confidence and unhinged valiance hovering over his body in steady waves. His dark, golden skin was riddled with visible scars on bare shoulders, where the sleeves had been torn from the seams. His jumpsuit was a deep gray, smudged with rust and sludge marks—a worker stationed the pipelines.

The chameleon Ant shifted in his bare, flexible feet, while the brown-haired boy trembled in a stationary position, but the boy in the middle—who couldn't have been a day older than eighteen, Killua noted—only proceeded to stare unblinkingly, valiantly, towards Illumi Zoldyck. He was quiet and stationary, a powerful presence meant to support the two companions beside him who were undoubtedly arrested in unison.

Not one person in their own Sanctuary exhibited this unruly form of confidence, and in front of a Zoldyck no less.

It was impossible for anyone to not know who Illumi was, and if this teenager was indeed taken into custody to be tried in front of his brother, then he wasn't supposed to be taken lightly.

Bisky stood up from her seat, folding her hands in front of her and staring at Illumi without little more than a nod to the three apprehended men.

“Meleoron Agresti, Zushi Wing, and Gon Freecss, identified under the Masadora Sanctuary, were found attempting to encrypt and recover files from one of the secure vaults in the sanctum.” She waved over to the boy in the middle, her gaze turning softer, as if veiled in a mist of both impressment and acceptance. “I understand that a crime like this hasn’t been committed directly against the Zoldyck Sanctuaries, and especially not to the consul that you’ve gathered here today.”

Killua rubbed his chin, glaring squarely into the profile of whom he assumed Bisky named _Gon Freecss_ —a name that sounded vaguely familiar—and allowing his tongue to curl in uncertainty.

There was something undetectable about the way this boy shifted and grinned, his smirk a threatening, yet innocent twitch in the corner of his mouth. Even from his position in the raised seats, Killua could spot even the smallest twitch of the boy’s thumbs, and the slightest chuckle rattling through his slender, yet defined upper body.

Before Illumi could respond to Bisky’s address, or even look directly at her, he was interrupted.

“Mm, well, the information actually belonged to us, so wouldn't that be _you_ stealing?”

Killua’s eyes bulged out of his sockets. Beside him, Ikalgo stiffened and reflexively smacked his shoulder, teeth audibly grinding and straining to the gums.

“He’s a goner,” whispered Ikalgo, slapping one hand over his mouth.

Killua’s jaw slacked.

_Is this guy an idiot?_

Silence swallowed up the cavernous room.

Illumi slowly tilted his head, his frown unchanging, with little regard to the shocked, rosy color flooding Bisky Krueger’s face. Killua would have found it amusing, if he weren’t so frozen stiff with the realization that this bright-eyed fool had the audacity to speak before a Zoldyck allowed permission to do so.

For all the years Killua had been at Illumi’s side, he had never seen his brother grant such an honor. And now, the words were stolen directly out of his mouth, rendering him just slightly pushed off of his position on the podium, skin crinkling with irritation around his dark eyes.

Watching his elder brother squirm on a pedestal he normally considered flawless made Killua want to burst out into guffaws and ridicule him all the same. Though, apparently, this honor was taken directly from him, by the likes of an imbecile who dared to break one of many rules that governed the Sanctuaries.

“You lack any tact fit for a Sanctuary resident,” said Knov, a barely audible spark in a stream of careful quiet.

Killua’s shoulders spread into a tight line. He nibbled on his thumb, watching, slowly, as his brother unfolded from his temporarily hindered state. Like a statue curling up from a ball of plastic, the Sanctuary Warden regarded all three young men with a minute sweep fo his head. Barely a strand of hair was out of place as he lifted his palm, resting it calmly on the lip of metal that separated him from the solid floor.

“Well, we weren’t here in the beginning,” said the boy, his smile too youthful, too aggravatingly innocent on an otherwise handsome face. “Are you Illumi Zoldyck? We tried asking to see you nicely from our own Sanctuary after visiting for shelter from the Burnside.” He shrugged. “We never meant any harm. All of this would have been easier, and with less broken computers, if you at least agreed to meet with us.”

He said each word as if it was commonplace. He rocked on the balls of his feet—which Killua now noticed to be almost completely bare, despite the remnants of smoked leather surrounding calloused toes and heels—and swept his gaze around the room.

“You all seem like nice people,” he said, a frown dressing his lips. “Or at least reasonable. I heard about how the Sanctuaries worked, and how they operated from a place far beyond the Burnside, but, I was told not to inform you of that.” His secretive smirk returned; the embodiment of mischief and whimsy, cloaked beneath youthful inexperience.

“Can you believe this guy?” Ikalgo whispered, shaking his head. “He’s dead, alright… might be the first execution since… before your old man passed, right?”

Killua quirked an eyebrow. “He’s brash, but,” he paused, considering, “you can tell he’s considered this more. Look at how he’s moving. Clearly it’s all an act of some kind.” He clicked his tongue. “He doesn’t know Illumi, though. If he knew any better, he’d shut up.”

He waited, leaning back in his chair and yet, somehow finding his attention resting on the same boy as he continued to be the only person speaking for himself and the two others in the middle of consul gathering. Bisky and Knov grumbled to one another, watching them curiously, wearing expressions that spoke of either misfortune or shame, as if the idea of having one of these poor souls executed for supposed treason was the most disappointing route to take.

Forty-five minutes ticked by, and not once did Killua turn to Ikalgo to ask how many minutes were left. Normally he would have scrambled to his feet and bolted out the door in one of these horrible meetings, since he hardly had a place amongst the rest of the consul other than sharing the blood of his older brother.

Throughout the entire meeting, the Warden Zoldyck himself never retorted.

Killua was rather intrigued by this, to see Illumi in such a state. He remained quiet and stiff as a porcelain pillar, building on his frustrations and simmering with venomous contempt.

The details left unnoticed to those unfamiliar with the Zoldyck bloodline would never have noticed the way Illumi gripped the railing around the podium harder than a python coiling around a startled rabbit, blanching his pale knuckles whiter than snow.

“Well, this has gone far enough,” said Bisky, huffing and puffing up like a disgruntled hen. “If any member of the consul has anything else to say, speak now. Otherwise, the Warden should be allowed a chance to give his two cents on the matter!” She crossed her arms, a twitch forming in her left eyebrow.

Killua held back a snicker.

“I find only one of these… stowaways, to be a complete waste of space within the Zoldyck Sanctuaries.”

It was informal, a declaration of one life thrown into a paper shredder.

The consul bustled, arguments rising in their throats and threatening to break into the open.

“That’s not true, actually.”

Killua had spoken before he could stop himself. An electric current zipped down his spine and illuminated his bones. He swallowed and stood up from his seat, ignoring the impending nerves speckling his hidden palms with sweat and dotting his temples, as he regarded the consul and his brother with a feigningly relaxed frown.

He expected to be chastised, ordered to leave the chamber as soon as possible, but he’d never felt so defiant in the face of his brother, who loomed and glared toward him behind a mask of indifference.

“Explain yourself, Kil.”

_Fuck._

He cleared his throat.

“ _Obviously_ , all three were able to break into one of the most secure vaults in the entire Sanctuary cluster. So, they have tracking skills that far exceed some of our own young trainees taken under Bisky’s wing. I’m aware that our Sanctuary vault isn’t open to the other smaller ones, but wouldn't it make more sense to keep the intelligent operatives under our watch instead of just… turning them out into the wastes?”

It was an incredible risk, like promising to write a will in invisible ink.

His heart was racing. He could feel Ikalgo staring, jaw hanging so wide a thousand bees could fly into his mouth at once, and the shocked looks from Bisky, Knov and Morel following him in a collective stream. Though, when his pupils danced and attempted to focus on other targets in the room that were not his brother, he rested his attention firmly on the handcuffed men.

The boy, Gon Freecss, was staring at him with an unreadable look washed over his features. However, with each passing second of Killua’s explanation sinking into the air, the boy’s lips spread into a broader smile, subtle and undoubtedly impressed.

_I’m not trying to impress you, asshole!_

He broke his stare from the boy, bristling as a fresh rush of heat rose in his neck and spilled into his cheeks.

“And what do you propose we do then, Kil?” said Illumi, patience already far too thin.

_Recover, Killua, recover!_

“Make them work in our Sanctuary. Patrol the Burnside and maybe even beyond that. Help scan for places not covered in radiation and claimed by rad-beasts or mutant Ants.” Killua folded his arms, waving his hand in a disinterested manner. “Why waste any potential? I could name twelve idiots off the top of my head who would pass Krueger’s tests in maybe twenty years, and these three, just with breaking into Zoldyck-protected files, clearly demonstrated talents better than any of them with just this action alone.”

He returned to his seat, closing his eyes and loping one leg over the other. He refused to address Ikalgo, his brother, or anyone else while his thoughts rummaged and pushed harder than ever before. He hoped that his impulsive thinking, for once not founded on hours of preparation and careful thought, would grant him the expectations he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

“Very well.”

Killua blinked, his brain struggling to comprehend exactly how Illumi made the decision. Yet, his brother released a long, heavy sigh, addressing the consul with a singular nod of his head, and not even bothering to glance over the handcuffed residents, as he made to remove himself from the judgmental podium.

“Wait—Warden Zol—”

The doors slid shut, gratingly quiet and heavy.

Bisky paused in her exclamation, throat bobbing. She turned to the men beside her, running one exhausted hand through her ponytail.

“You heard him, then.” She looked up, and regarded Killua strongly. “This was your doing, Killua. See to it that whatever you’ve started, you handle like a future Sanctuary Warden would.”

Killua stiffened, unable to decipher the frantic words Ikalgo was saying to him, as the reality of what he had just accomplished sunk into his bones.

He was barely able to lift his head to survey the residents excused from their arrest. All three were promptly released from their bonds, kept under firm surveillance by the soldiers and their powergloves. The freckled boy was sobbing, though now his tears were founded in relief, and his smile would be visible from miles away, as he embraced the chameleon Ant with a sense of familiarity only found between lifelong friends.

“What did you _do_?” Ikalgo whispered, harsh and rattled in disbelief. “Does this mean—what kind of responsibility did the Warden just put on you? This is insane—”

“I don’t know,” said Killua, biting his lip. “I don’t…”

The teen with the sunny smile and the hidden darkness in his molten gold eyes was staring at him, unblinking, and absolutely transfixed.

Killua was, once again, rendered completely immobile. He returned the stare tenfold, as if communicating in a silent challenge where he wasn’t entirely aware of the rules. The longer he looked, the more secrets he could spot dwelling in those sharp irises.

The boy then grinned, laughed, and looked away.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

 Killua coughed, blinking rapidly.

“… You okay, Killua?” Ikalgo frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you think we could, you know, leave? You should probably ask your brother what that was all about, anyway.”

Killua coasted one hand through his hair, annoyed at the slightest sheen of sweat now caking his forehead and running down his scalp. It was easily traceable, unlike the slick thickness of blood in the heat of combat, where noise drowned out any hope of breathing or surviving until the next day.

But the fact that he was reacting to something like this as if being prepared to set off a rifle in a ghoul’s brain, sent a ferocious shiver through his entire skull.

He clenched his fists, and approached the door, knowing that the same boy was still watching him.

_What the hell did I just do...?_


	2. Murky Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gon adjusts to some new roles. Oh, and he's already grown a little fond of the younger Zoldyck. Just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH. I was hoping to get this up on KilluGon Day but I'm lame and this is late because IT TOOK FOREVER AND I'M SO SORRY WITH HOW LONG THIS TOOK OH MY GOD--
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarking, and COMMENTING last chapter! That response was wonderful and so overwhelming, you guys. Words can't express how thankful I am. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.
> 
> So here's the next one. :D

The plasma manacles around his wrists were not thick enough to cover the chafes and burns he’d endured in places far worse than a Sanctuary’s sterilized halls.

Though, the second Gon realized that he and his comrades were spared an untimely execution, he believed he would have preferred blasting through a snarling ghoul’s brain than face the Warden’s sentence.

But then, the youngest member of the consul spoke, and as if he doused his words in fairy dust, Gon and his allies were saved from death.

The shorter woman pinpointed the boy as the younger brother to the Warden, but this hardly seemed possible. Not when the Warden was tall and willowy in frame, black hair cascading past his shoulders in a bewitched curtain. His eyes held nothing but hidden distaste and calculation, constantly working through deciding the fates of humans less important than him.

Gon had seen many men like him, guarded underneath layers of armor and false hopes, wishing for a fate that escaped the inevitability of dying young.

But the younger brother, Gon mused, was entirely different, in not only appearance but countenance.

He stood up instinctively in his seat, presenting a case for three total strangers being marked for death with only first impressions as his weapon. He barely broke his confident façade, addressing the consul with authority that would have made any politician proud.

He was young, too young to be someone held accountable for the judgment of three apparent criminals.

The moment the boy turned and locked onto him, something stirred inside Gon’s chest. A firestorm blooming to life, sprouting a flurry of petals.

His fingers twitched, itching for a trigger of some kind, to challenge this stranger to a skirmish. A fight.

It was a conflicting array of thoughts and wishes, riding on the wave of rules and forced peace that Gon and his companions were forced to endure in the other Sanctuary vaults.

Because, even though the boy was undoubtedly young and intelligent, his beauty was unquestionable.

Ivory skin, silver hair, and eyes brighter than artificial blue flames. Slender and trained for temporary excursions out into the Burnside, and possibly beyond, from what Gon could gather about these Sanctuary residents. The freshly ironed sleeves of his collared shirt were rolled to his elbows, nerves rattling the youth’s grip on the railings that separated him from the tried prisoners.

He reminded Gon of a warrior plucked from a different time.

It took only a handful of seconds for Gon to confirm that he wouldn’t mind continue observing the Warden’s younger brother without interruption.

He rolled his bottom lip under his teeth, a curious snicker threatening to break out from his silent mask. He looked directly into the Warden’s stiffening frame, watching the faintest curl of his knuckles.

He reveled in watching his targets—his enemies, from one stretch of the Burnside to the deepest corridor and tunnel in the Sanctuaries—and recognizing what tiny actions made them squirm.

The Warden was different from the rest of the consul in how he carried himself, however. His emotions were thinly veiled despite his phantom face.

Before long, the consul had agreed to the Warden’s brother’s decision, and Gon and his comrades were ushered through another set of doors. Steel, cone-shaped corridors spanned out into separate hallways, teeming with waxed floors, polished tables, and several spacious rooms visible through two-way glass windows.

“It’s a lot nicer in this Sanctuary,” whispered Zushi, the boy bounding beside him. He trembled with each sharp breath he took.

Gon’s brow furrowed. To their left, Meleoron was completely silent, engrossed in his own thoughts. Gon knew him well enough not to question him, or to ask anything aloud when they were currently separated from the Sanctuary division that offered them laborious work in exchange for shelter. 

“So,” muttered Meleoron, his long reptilian tongue slipping out between his lips, “got any bright ideas now, Freecss?”

Gon bit the inside of his cheek to prevent a smirk.

“I’ve got it handled,” he said, flashing a bright smile. “No worries. Leave it to me.”

Their mission in recovering encrypted files had gone exactly as he’d hoped.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

In the previous Sanctuary, he had worked as a cleaner in the pipelines.

Sporting the particular jumpsuits for the cleaning crew in the Masadora Sanctuary, Gon had quickly garnered a reputation for being one of the most efficient scrubbers and collectors in the branch. He would squeeze in the darkest crannies, muscle over stones forming crusted walls in the pipes, and use long electrically powered drills and flex-wires to dive past layers of rubble.

Through those several months employed under the watchful eye of the Masadora overseers, he’d managed to scrape together valuable praise and an increasing likeness with the selected consul.

They’d allowed him into earlier shifts in the cafeteria with his comrades, had given him easier access to pipelines with extra fine stones and gems detected in the squabble, and even better sleeping spaces. The empty bunkers were often associated with residents who knew they weren’t meant to stay long, whether they were destined to be cast out into the Burnside with only the clothes on their backs or meeting an unfortunate end in more secretive manners.

Yet, with only two hours of being present in the largest Sanctuary in what Gon pictured as a labyrinth of vaulted miniature cities, he found himself awestruck with the variety.

No one wandering these halls seemed to starve or expect anything more from each other aside from excellence in their physical tests—the teenagers and younger children who spotted him barely paid a glance and dipped their heads.

Fear and uncertainty passed over them and turned their skin paler than ashen snow.

Gon was silent as he was separated from his friends, and allowed his shackled wrists to be kept stationary behind him through the awkward stroll down the halls. He never dared look away from the soldier, despite the insistent prodding on his back.

He suspected the power-gloves and electrically wired blackjacks to be more intimidating, at least, judging from the rumors he’d heard crawling through the tunnels.

Chipping away old flecks of rust and iron plating in the pipelines led to some interesting—and potentially useful—conversations.

“Where are you going with him?”

Gon blinked, and followed the familiar voice to the formerly empty spot around the corner, where the Warden’s younger brother leaned calmly against the window. He was dressed in a long-sleeved black training shirt, with jumpsuit bottoms that looked like they’d been thrust into a warzone and pulled back by a grappling hook. His hands were occupied with a ruffled towel, a piece of cloth stained with red rust splotches.

Gon bit the inside of his cheek to prevent a smile from breaking out. He locked onto the other teen as he strolled over to the masked patrolman guarding him, those bright blue eyes fervent with untamed heat.

“I asked you a question.”

The patrolman stiffened behind Gon. The power-glove rippled with energy and dropped from being prodded against Gon’s back.

When the masked man spoke, his voice rumbled through the grated covering on his mouth in static patterns.

“Mr. Zoldyck, sir, I—”

“I know; you’re just following orders. Whatever. I don’t care. Illumi agreed to go with _my_ suggestion, and that includes not treating our new residents like prisoners. We’ve already confirmed that the rules and regulations will be adjusted the longer they stay here.”

And with that, the teen waved his hand in the air, shrugging nonchalantly.

“So get out of here. I’m going to be leading him to the training quarters.”

Gon tilted his head at this. It made sense, for the Sanctuaries to have at least one military station, especially in the largest one where the Warden was present. However, to hear it communicated by this rather youthful and blasé teenager made him reconsider his previous doubts.

The patrolman hesitated.

“I—but, Mr. Killua—I mean, Mr. Zoldyck, um, the Warden will—”

“If he gets pissy about it, just let me deal with it. You won’t lose your post or anything.” The boy—Killua, Gon mentally noted—shrugged a second time and directed his attention to Gon.

Gon’s skin prickled with goosebumps, a fire rushing in his blood.

He saw the hidden spark, the slightest crackle of embers dancing in those blue eyes. It reminded him of winter storms in old fairytale books, before the Aether Waves throttled the world and turned the very sun on its belly.

He wanted to talk to him, and learn.

What would that entail, he wondered?

“I’ll deal with him,” said Killua, his brow pinching in the middle. The patrolman nodded apathetically, spared one glance at Gon, and left.

It was silent for a few moments. Gon shuffled in his stained work boots, clicking his tongue and smirking at the sight of the Warden’s younger brother glaring icily onto his shackles.

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” said Killua.

Gon ran his eyes up and down Killua. He lingered on the utility belt wrapped around the teen’s waist, the clicks and small folds containing several unidentifiable capsules. When he drew his gaze upward and landed on Killua’s angered, flustered face, he grinned wider.

“You look a bit fancy,” he said, tilting his head and grinning crookedly, “you know, for being a prowler.”

Killua blinked. “Wha—shut up! I don’t care what you think.” He huffed, lifting his head high and glaring harshly into the parallel wall. “I always lead the squadrons out here to patrol the Burnside when necessary. Just doing my _job_ , outside of, you know, scraping shit out of pipes.”

Gon chuckled, his expression all the more disarming. He enjoyed watching the confidence flicker on the boy’s features, back and forth like a lit match brought to a puddle of oil.

“And what the heck is a _prowler_? Some dated term you and your outsiders use?” Killua studied him as if he’d sprint away in any moment, lips pressed in a thin line.

Gon bit his tongue. Kite would have been furious if he’d known that this particular detail slipped.

“Hm. Well, prowlers are what my friends in the Central Pointe called scouters from the Sanctuaries.” Gon laughed at the twitch forming in Killua’s forehead. “Aw, don’t be mad! It’s not a bad thing, just a label we give to enemies or potential allies we don’t know fully yet. I mean, you call us outsiders, so, it’s only fair we have a name for you, right?”

Killua snorted. “You actually _are_ outsiders, idiot. Our term makes _sense_.” He shook his head. “Start walking. I’ll direct you to the only part of the Sanctuary that you should bother memorizing.”

The younger Zoldyck then lifted his left wrist, inspecting the metal contraption clasped around his forearm. Black square pieces shifted and rolled under a few finger-punches, until a green light spurred from the lone glass bulb revealed in the center. Calmly, Killua read the code numbers and words etched on the hologram projection, tracing and moving one image over another.

Gon rolled back his shoulders, bouncing on his heels.

“Are you sure you still want to keep me in these cuffs?”

Killua rolled his eyes without looking over to him.

“Guess you already think I’m a moron.” He pressed a single button, and the hologram vanished back into the device. He sighed, placing his hands on his hips and gesturing vaguely to the long hallway stretched out before them. “Go on. Honestly, if you keep talking I’m going to get a headache.”

Gon smirked, a twitch in his hidden fingers.

“Hm? Do you like songs?”

“No.”

Killua slapped his back, pushing him several steps forward. He laughed at the annoyance in Killua’s voice, but chose to divert his attention to their surroundings for the time being.

“So you would be pretty mad if I started singing, huh?”

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Oh. So you _do_ want to hear me sing?”

“If you keep asking me dumb questions I’ll bring that guard back and have him electrocute you. Just shut the fuck up.”

Gon did not say another word, but the temptation to hum a familiar tune in the near future would be enough to satiate his boredom.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

It wasn’t a shock, at first, for Gon to intake the surroundings of the training vault. His hands balled into fists even in the tight metallic constraints, his gaze open and wide as the room opened up before him became larger with each second that passed.

The walls were composed of fine, polished steel plates and tiles, separated in clean measured patterns. Windows were installed into the left and right walls, allowing a clear view from the outside for spectators. A barrage of lights blared overhead, like dozens of containers holding miniature summer suns.

“If you’re going to be working for us,” said Killua, sounding far less invested than Gon presumed he would be, “then you need to know the basics.”

Gon nodded, though he could hardly agree. At least, not with the current example he was witnessing.

Many younger boys and the occasional girl were braced in plastic guard pieces on their shoulders, waists and knees. Some were split into pairs, sparring and huffing loudly with each punch and kick thrown. The scent of sweat-soaked cloth and the salty tang of blood littered the premises, splashed haphazardly onto blue cushioned mats and drenched jumpsuits.

In the center of the room was the same tiny woman who addressed Gon in the main chamber. She looked far more attentive and casually dressed than before, with a sleeveless white top, dark brown cargo pants and her light blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. Her arms were crossed under her chest, and she was barking out vicious orders to teenagers who were easily a foot taller than her, some even capable of throttling her from the inside-out if they so chose.

It made sense, he supposed, for the scarce amount of living humans that were left to leave their anger and hatred rested on one common enemy.

“Hey! Bisky!” Killua drawled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Brought one of the newbies.”

Bisky Krueger snapped her head over towards them, large eyes flicking back and forth between Killua and Gon. He smiled on reflex, though the nervous chuckle building in his chest was directed at the clear fire storming in this woman’s eyes.

He read the anguish, the distilled fear, the unbridled hesitation in years plaguing her conscience, as if she had gone through a century of pain before rebuilding herself into someone new.

These qualities alone made it impossible for Gon to disregard her.

“Why did you bring him here?” she said, not unkindly. She locked onto Gon, eyebrows raised to her hairline. A fresh sheen of sweat was layered over her exposed skin. “You know that this entire area is confidential, you brat. I can’t take all of these… residents, that you excused from the Warden’s verdict.” She huffed and crossed her arms.

Killua rubbed his temples. “Listen, it’s a work in progress. Just, show him the basic moves. Who knows what this guy has even tried doing while living as an outsider. Can’t take him out into the actual Burnside unless he’s useful.”

Gon blinked at this. “Oh, I don’t need any training.”

Killua and Bisky shared a brief glance, like a clap of thunder in a veil of smoke.

Gon tilted his head, studying them.

“No, really! I can show you!” He mustered a small smile, a slight pulse he recognized only as his anticipation running steadily and mightily in his body. His muscles coiled as he drew his gaze over the rest of the trainees in the vicinity. “I could compete with any of them, and beat all of them, if you’d let me.”

Bisky scoffed, but when she turned to say something to Killua, the younger Zoldyck was watching Gon as if he’d sprouted another head.

Killua’s eyes narrowed. He then cracked his knuckles, and when those lips twitched into a challenging smirk, Gon felt his defenses simultaneously build up and crumble.

“Okay, idiot,” said Killua. “I’m the top scorer in Bisky’s regime and graduated with a near-perfect record. If you’re going to fight anyone here, it’s going to be me.”

Killua pressed another button on the armored device on his forearm, leading to the shackles suddenly unclasping from around Gon’s hands and crashing to the floor. The noise drew many heads towards them, some gasping at spotting the apparent intruder, and some muttering a fresh wave of gossip at the scene developing before them.

Heat buzzed under Gon’s skin like the humming of flies. He watched, carefully, as Killua pressed several buttons attached to the doorway, and promptly stepped back to allow an energy field to swarm up from the ground and envelop the entire entryway.

Bisky placed her hands on her hips, licking her lips.

“… Okay, Killua. You have thirty minutes with this outside-dwelling punk. Go to the center ring and don’t bother my other trainees. Not all of us can afford to traipse around like we have nothing going on outside of a pissing match.”

She turned on her heel, and left, only to immediately spout and snap orders at the distracted teenagers in the area.

Gon rubbed his wrists, glaring down at the fine lacerations and burns imprinted on his flesh. He hadn’t noticed them before, when he was reprimanded in Masadora Sanctuary with the cleaning tools for the pipes still grasped tightly in his hands. He had knocked two guards unconscious, legs swinging and punches thrown with nothing but a consistent blur riding in his line of sight—

“Hey, anything there, outsider?” Killua quipped, snapping his fingers. Gon blinked out of his daydreaming, and focused on how close the Warden’s younger brother suddenly was.

 _Wow_.

Gon swallowed.

This boy was even more attractive up close.

“Focus!” Killua gestured to the rectangular mat in the far right corner of the room, splayed long and open for between two to four participants. “We’ll be using that area over there.” He grinned, an expression that carried a freefalling amusement that Gon had believed died long ago in the Aether-swallowed wastelands. “So you better be ready. I won’t go easy on you.”

Gon ran his fingers over his knuckles, reveling in the fresh burns, bruises and callouses marring his skin. He turned, and smiled blindingly towards Killua, which caused him to nearly stumble over his own shoes.

“You don’t seem like a person who would ever _go easy_. But guess what?”

Gon playfully clapped onto Killua’s shoulder and burst into laughter at his mortified, reddening face. Before the Zoldyck could reply, however, Gon was already leaning closer, his lips twitching in amusement.

“Neither am I.”

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

The way Sanctuary residents sparred, Gon realized, could not have been more different from the people he’d known for years outside the vaults.

Most of these training, gray jumpsuit-clad residents could barely match a knuckle to his if they so dared.

The room grew thick with tension and sweat, heat wafting off of saturated clothes and the occasional glare shot over from a neighboring shoulder. Gon watched and read the flickering desperation on each trainee’s face, glimpsing past the layers of indifference to trace the undeniable fear underneath.

He had lived in the Burnside long enough to understand better than these people ever would.

He knew that it never took a simple kickback of a shotgun to blast the head off of a ghoul. It was best to set traps, usually consisting of bait and wires—sometimes even resorting to old dog meat and rotting roadkill—and watch as tiny handmade explosions burst into life like starbursts in an open night sky.

He and his comrades would laugh only to hold back the quivering adrenaline rushing through their systems, hands trembling just slightly around the triggers of their salvaged weapons. He would lean into a warm shoulder, listen to a familiar heartbeat humming under a protective cage of bone, and wonder when the time bombs strapped to their lives would come to an abrupt stop.

He blinked, the deep reds of barren sunsets and red dust fading in the flash of fake lights overhead. He dodged a punch, knuckles barely grazing his cheek. He shot a fierce look towards Killua, who quickly pulled his hand and leaped several paces backwards. He was sweating, panting, livid with a brand of fire in his eyes that burned brighter than freezer-burned coals.

Gon stuck out his tongue.

“Hm, I thought you would be able to at least hit me _once_ , being a Warden’s son and all.” He laughed and quickly stepped to the side when Killua struck again, the younger Zoldyck twisting and leaping in zigzagging patterns—pale lightning dashing through the corridor.

“Shut up!” he barked.

Gon reared back his own clenched fist, placing his palm over his knuckles and bracing every muscle in his body, when his target vanished. He stared, awestruck at the white wall in the back, where Bisky watched the two of them with a composed frown. He turned on his heel, about to strike, when a familiar wisp of breath coasted over his neck, and a sharp _snap_ of a hand collided with his neck.

He stumbled, barely straightening enough to form a balanced position on the opposite end of the mat. He shook his head, and whistled lowly at the triumphant grin laced across Killua’s lips. It was barely there, a string of an expression, but it existed nonetheless.

Gon placed a hand over the fresh bruise welling on the juncture between his neck and shoulder blade. He rubbed the area, mouth opening.

“Oh. That’s so cool.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Haven’t learned any tricks like that.” He hummed, lips smacking together in thought, though the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. He studied Killua, watched how the other teen’s glare hardened into ice shards. “You should teach me more. I want to get to know you better—”

He found himself lying flat on his stomach, a knee slammed into his back and pressing his chest to the mat. His left arm was twisted behind him, gripped in a strong, stable hand. He burst out a laugh, the sound muffled and somewhat pained in the swell of blue mesh and leather shoved up to his bruising cheek.

“You’re so annoying,” grumbled Killua, his presence a deceptively strong shadow above him.

Gon wondered what he looked like, how his dark words were tailored to the way he fought.

Bisky held up one hand.

“Alright, that’s enough. Killua, hit the showers before you go out to the Burnside. You won’t want to smell like sweaty, bloody meat to the rad-beasts.”

Killua paused for a few seconds, and then leaped off of him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

He landed so softly, quietly, on the mat, that it shocked Gon to see that he was still wearing shoes. His back was turned to him, the fabric of his own shirt stained in sweat, but the speeding pace to his walk and his visibly grinding teeth were enough to distract him.

Gon slowly lifted himself from the mat, crossing his legs and balancing his chin on the upturned palm of his head. He watched the teen approach Bisky and mutter several harsher words under his breath to her, his entire body bristling and hands concealed in his pockets. He knew, despite this, that those slender fingers were curled in distaste, in apprehension.

In anxiety.

Then, Bisky’s words sunk in, like the trickling of sand in an hourglass.

“Oh! This makes a lot of sense now,” Gon chirped. “So you _have_ been to the Burnside. You know you’re not going to be able to fight off any of the bigger goons in the wastes with moves like that. Me, yeah. Those were pretty incredible strikes. But Red Ghouls? Death Whispers?”

His smirk widened as Killua whipped around, his glare somehow overtaking his entire face and flushing his skin a deep pink.

“Are you mad, _Kil-lu-a_?” Gon said in a sing-song manner, laughing at the mere twitch in the other teen’s brow.

Killua scoffed, barely holding back any disdain in his less than professional demeanor.

“ _Don’t_. You—,” he grabbed fistfuls of his hair and released a long, drawn-out sigh. “Just shut up and don’t get so full of yourself so soon! I helped you get out of my brother’s hands, didn’t I?”

He folded his arms, ignoring Bisky’s icy stare from less than a hairsbreadth away from him.

“Wait…” He looked at Bisky, and then back towards Gon, straight as a board and bristling like a perturbed cat. “Red Ghouls? _Death Whispers_?”

_Bingo._

Gon hummed noncommittally at the confusion twisting up Killua’s face. He licked his lips and chuckled, pushing on his knees to properly stand and stretch the kinks out of his joints. 

“Yeah!” he said, bouncing off the matted platform and linking his fingers behind his back. “Haven’t you heard of them? Tall, have a big appetite for human flesh. Red Ghouls look like they’ve been tossed in a furnace and pulled back out. They’re more common, and much harder to kill. But Death Whispers?”

He stared at the floor, eyebrows scrunching up as he cycled through the many instances where he’d encountered those creatures—monsters bred from inhumane testing, from destructive methods that should never have seen the light of day. Should never have opened their mouths to breathe in the spare moments encroached upon death.

“My friend far out past the wastes, past the Burnside even—his name is Kite. First time I met him he had set up a huge trap just to catch one Death Whisper.”

He walked jovially over towards them, further comments burned like a brand on his tongue, until Killua abruptly pulled out his forearm in a defensive stance. His throat was taut, eyes blazing.

Gon stared him down, amused.

“Bigger than crocodiles, sometimes with tentacles for limbs. Claws. Fangs. They secrete toxins in their skin, and, oh—they like eating people.” He nodded, rubbing his chin as if counting off the many instances he could have seen someone’s head twisted off their shoulders and strung like a soaked cotton rag. “They all have certain weak points. And, they come out of egg sacs. I was going to try and harvest them—”

“Does it look like I care?” Killua asked, his voice lowered to a murmur.

Gon blinked.

“Well, yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Wouldn’t you want to know if there are huge monsters out there close to the vaults where you live—”

“Bullshit,” said Bisky, eyeing Gon as if he was wearing a dozen conspiracies on his sleeve. “You can talk all you want, _outsider_ , but we’ve worked in these Sanctuaries to make it clear that no one can go past the Burnside border. I don’t believe what you’re saying, and the Warden won’t either, if this was ever presented to him.”

Gon rolled his bottom lip between his teeth.

“What reason would I have to lie?” He frowned, studying Bisky quietly. “If I had another agenda I would’ve tried to escape by now.”

Killua snorted. “Listen, _Porcupine_ ,” he said, shoving Gon back several steps and glaring with a pointed finger. “I’m not going to buy _any_ of that until you actually prove it. The next patrol is out in two days, and I’ll be leading the expedition.”

Bisky stared at him, paling.

“Wait, Killua—”

“Which means,” continued Killua, promptly ignoring Bisky’s fiery glare, “you’ll be coming with us. You and whoever else you brought with you that could potentially do some good for the Sanctuary. It’s because of me that you’re not all dead or banished right now, and how you’re going to pay us back is with the information you _do_ have.”

Killua never broke the stare, never looked away once from Gon’s cautious half-smile.

 _Kite would like him_ , Gon mused. _What would you have been like outside of the vaults?_

“Okay,” said Gon, eyes sparkling. Shining. “You won’t be disappointed, Killua!”

“That’s Zoldyck, to you,” said Killua, grumbling.

Bisky clamped her jaw shut, fists balling tightly around her elbows. She stepped away from the two of them, sounding all the more strained with each exasperated sigh she let out.

“Both of you, just get out of here. Christ.”

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

Gon’s grip tightened around the soda can propped on the table. He glanced down at the microwaved noodles, bobbing in the thin chicken broth like wilted shoelaces.

He felt his hunger slowly fade the longer he stared, his left hand preoccupied with twirling a fork and spoon separately.

Around him, the bustle of other residents shifting their eyes over him and muttering under their breaths released a flurry of sparks in his chest.

This Sanctuary was much larger, but the people themselves were far more invested in what the fresh new faces prowling their halls were up to than what they were doing.

He wondered if he would be allowed to contact Meleoron or Zushi soon.

_They’re here, planning something already._

Gon smirked to himself, sipping from the soda can.

He trusted them to be prepared if anything changed.

With a sigh, Gon carded one hand through his hair, and marveled at the softened feel.

The shower stalls had been clean, with clear plastic containers filled with unidentifiable green and white liquids propped up on marble shelves. It never varied in color, each bottle plastered over with a label monogrammed with a large black and gold-embroidered _Z_.

Washing off the grime and bloody residue from his skin, and pulling out leftover pipeline gunk from his hair was supposed to feel needed— _wanted_.

He wondered if he would crave that feeling of cleanliness, of scrubbing away the blood, gore and inevitable death wandering in the wastelands outside the Zoldyck Sanctuaries.

Though, when he looked over the many-thrashed scars streaked over his knuckles, palms, wrists and arms, he didn’t see a refreshed canvas, waiting for a new kind of paint—

His tray rattled and jolted at the impact of a booted foot slamming on the table.

With his elbows propped up beside his bowl, Gon snapped out of his thoughts and glanced up.

Killua Zoldyck glared down at him, arms folded over his chest, his frown still and unreadable, eyebrows risen to his hairline. He looked expectant, as if Gon had already somehow trifled with his schedule and slipped ghoul saliva into his cornflakes.

“You,” said Killua, cocking a finger over his shoulder. “You were supposed to be—”

“Hm?” Gon dropped his eating utensil and grinned up at the glowering Zoldyck brother. “I was _supposed_ to be… what? I don’t remember agreeing to follow orders, _Kil-lu-a_ ,” he said.

Killua twitched, stepping off the table with his hands balled up at his sides. He glanced around the room, a deafening silence hovering in the small cafeteria space. Jumpsuit-clad residents looked over towards them, some perked up in interest and others already turning back to their food or private conversations.

“ _You_ —just, follow me, dumbass!” Killua rolled his eyes. “I’ve already gathered a group together, and we’re heading out soon to patrol the Burnside and you’re coming with us. I already made that clear.”

Gon’s eyes flashed, the corner of his mouth curving. Smooth and simple.

“About time,” he said with a chuckle, “lead the way, Kil-lu-a—”

“And _don’t_ call me that,” growled Killua.

“Don’t call you by your name? Why not? It’s a nice name—”

“Just come _on_.”

He was already stalking off, a red flush crawling up his neck and exploding across his cheeks.

Gon smiled to himself, and flashed his pearly whites at several spluttering onlookers before they turned back to their own menial tasks. He stood up from the table, and began to walk, allowing his pace to slow every now and then as uniformed guards and young Sanctuary dwellers sauntered by, some stopping to gawk and stare while others quickened into a jog to avoid him.

Kite would have loved the attention from these posh bottom-feeders.

Gon nibbled on his lip, fingers twitching.

 _Kite_ , he thought, _are you all doing okay?_

“Hey, Freecss!”

Gon blinked, standing straight and watching as Killua motioned over towards him. He was standing in front of a wide arrangement of lockers, each one colored a deep rustic gray and shining in a fresh coat of wax.

“We’re going to have to try some of these out on you before we all go out there.” Killua rolled his eyes. “Morel was supposed to take care of it, but, seeing that you’re still dressed in… pipeline, shit-cleaning, _whatever_ , clothes,” he gestured to Gon’s outfit, “we’ll just have to make do with the leftover suits in here.”

Gon cocked his head, sizing up the centered locker with interest. Killua pressed his palm flat over a small rectangular device attached to the door. Green light filtered between his fingers. Within seconds, it clicked open, the sound echoing and gratifying in the chambered halls.

“It’ll be easier if we just cycle through and see what’s been charged and what’s not…”

Killua trailed off, snorting and muttering harsh words under his breath as he pulled out various pieces of armor Gon had never seen before in his life—dismantled power gloves, retractable plasma batons, handguns, razors, boxing tape, brass knuckles, and many more discernible items that seemed hardly weathered with age.

“Okay, depending on what the weather is like in the Burnside today, we can figure out what weapon works best in the current environment. So for right now…”

Killua’s instructions fell in a rhythmic list, describing each weapon accordingly as he pulled them out and presented them to Gon.

Though, Gon’s attention was mainly focused on Killua himself.

Despite how methodical and eloquently practiced the younger Zoldyck’s movements were, he seemed tensely wound—like a coiled spring. His fingers fumbled every now and again, awkward and boyish, inexperienced despite the visible scars painting the backs of his hands and disappearing into his jumpsuit sleeves. His skin was washed pale under the fading lights, bright blue eyes narrowed and focused.

“… so you’re going to be handling a power glove, then.”

Gon blinked, and stared.

“Hm?”

Killua paused, reading his expression carefully, before his own jaw slacked. He slapped a hand over his face and sighed.

“Did you listen to _anything_ I just said?” he grumbled, a twitch notable in his eyebrow.

Gon bit the inside of his cheek. He rocked back and forth on his heels, his chest fluttering with amusement at the anger flushing Killua’s fair face.

“Hm. No. ‘Fraid not. Was a bit preoccupied staring at something way more interesting.”

He proceeded to slowly look Killua up and down, lingering on the slender trim of his waist, the slender, yet firm set of his shoulders, and finally on Killua’s rapidly flitting eyelashes. He watched him, and spluttered and rapidly turning red as a rose.

Gon broke out into a laugh.

“Oh my god, you’re so cute! If I had known my parole officer, basically, was going to be like this, I would’ve gotten myself arrested a long time ago,” said Gon.

As he’d predicted, Killua’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He stumbled back as if struck in the face, the remaining weapons clutched protectively to his chest.

“Y-You—you’re _unbelievable_ —”

“Oh! Killua! Are you getting him suited up?”

Killua blinked and immediately brushed down his shirt with his free hand, clenching and unclenching the fingers. His throat was visibly tight, jaw clenched shut like the maw of a windup toy.

“Ah, you’re just in time, Ikalgo.”

Gon grinned as the noted figure skirted the corner.

He recognized him from the conference chamber.

A crossbred Ant not entirely lost to scientific experimentation, free from guzzling bullets and even more extreme cases of radiation that lingered beyond the Burnside. He seemed mostly human, if not for the larger, mammalian eyes and traces of dark red scales that swam over his neck and peppered his hands.

He watched him quietly.

Gon flashed a grin in return.

“Hi! I’m Gon Freecss! But you can call me Gon—”

“He knows who you are, idiot,” drawled Killua, scratching his cheek. He gestured with a flick of his head towards another set of closed doors, the controls still locked and beeping red beside the lockers. “We should be heading out soon, Ikalgo.”

“Did Krueger give you the rundown?” Ikalgo asked, completely turning away from Gon.

“Yeah. East border. By that power plant close to the station.”

Killua shrugged on a large mechanical device with numerous buttons and a watch strap. He tapped on the screen, drawing Gon into the flicking back and forth between white, green and blue holograms and flashing text.

“Others should be waiting by the vault entrance. So we’ll head out there.”

Gon rubbed his chin.

“But first,” said Ikalgo, chuckling slightly at Gon’s state of dress, “we gotta get you suited up.”

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

Through the labyrinth of intertwined halls that formed the heart of the largest Zoldyck Sanctuary, Gon found the remaining tunnels lost to unfinished construction and malformed history to be the most interesting parts. He found his legs striding forward, the pieces of refined leather armor forming a protective layer over his newer, fresher jumpsuit, free of gunk markings and blood spots.

He adjusted the goggles over his forehead, enjoying the feel of the power glove encased around his right hand. He attempted to use it once when Killua put it on, but was met with only disappointment when he realized that Killua had complete security control over his weapons.

A large, gaping tunnel spread out before them as the final doors to the protective inner sanctum peeled open.

“Watch your step,” said Killua, sighing. His voice echoed in the cavernous insides. “These stairs are the only things that haven’t been upgraded since the Sanctuaries were established.”

He tested the first few steps down a spiraling, crooked staircase. The steps wobbled under their added weight, the sound of scuffed leather hitting metal grates.

A breeze drifted through the cave, ruffling the hairs on the back of Gon’s neck.

He smirked at the thought of stepping back into the outside world. For a place so grim and washed in a never-ending layer of blood-red dust and trees stripped to skeletons, it was home.

The Aether Waves had never taken the world from him.

“Hey,” said Ikalgo, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You fading already?”

Gon only hummed in response, and kept moving.

He gazed over Killua’s shoulder to the tall, looming elevator system ingrained in the middle of the cavern. Wheels, old control systems and larger gear contraptions formed the base around the rectangular device, worn to deep reds and lighter grayish brown hues from age and wear. Oil and water dripped from cracked, muddied and cement-laden walls, like leftover barnacles on the bottom of a boat.

Once they descended to the bottom of the stairwell, Gon took notice of the small gathering of uniformed, younger Sanctuary residents propped in front of the elevator doors. They turned their heads at once, many faces younger than Gon had originally presumed, fresh-faced and unblemished.

He stared at Killua, frowning.

Were they all leaving the Sanctuary at once? These… children?

They hardly seemed qualified. If any of them introduced themselves to Kite, even with the impressive gear layered over their jumpsuits and the clock-like devices strapped onto their wrists, he would turn them away immediately.

Killua cleared his throat, steadily approaching the small group with a lazy kick to his strides. He glared across the length of their teetering heads, while Gon remained closely glued to Ikalgo’s side.

“Where are my friends?” Gon asked, frowning. He assumed Meleoron, or at least Zushi, would be included in this planned excursion.

Ikalgo sighed. “Sorry, forgot to tell you that. They’re still being interrogated by the Warden and some of the other officials on the consul. We’re going to be rotating you one by one to see if you actually, um, you know,” he gestured to the young bloods staring wide-eyed at Killua, “survive."

Killua cleared his throat, gaze pointed. Sharp as steel.

“So, Bisky sent you to wait here for your first patrol in the Burnside. I’m already going to assume she went over the normal details. Because, guess what, this whole thing?” Killua folded his arms over his chest, shrugging one shoulder. “None of what you’ve seen in her training, in those simulations, and on those tests you had to pass to get here, are going to be on the outside. The Burnside is ruthless. You know, unforgiving. Bloodthirsty.”

Several heads turned, a questionable chuckle or two lifting in the crowd.

Killua smirked, crooked and taunting.

“You won’t be laughing when we spot a ghoul. They’re ugly as fuck in those stupid tests you had to fill out, but guess what?”

He slowly dragged out the plasma-fueled blaster on his back, the nozzle jutting out with each crank of a gear and twist of a button. The weapon was strangely angular and perfectly capable for high-speed chases and close combat.

“None of them are like the real thing.” Killua stared, unblinking, and scanned the entire group.

Killua slipped the gun in the holster on his back, satisfied and even allowing his grin to grow at the sight of nervously bumping shoulders and the occasional sound of someone swallowing the lump in their throat.

Gon whistled lowly at the sight of it. He wanted to see how it worked, maybe practice on a Red Ghoul charging straight for them, gums bleeding, puss-yellow eyes greedy for flesh—

“R-Right, Mr. Zoldyck, sir!” A handful of graduates chirped, strained.

Killua slipped the gun in the holster on his back, satisfied and even allowing his grin to grow at the sight of nervously bumping shoulders and the occasional sound of someone swallowing the lump in their throat.

“Alright, all of you. Get in the elevator. Ikalgo, this… standby, and I will be following you to the surface. You’re safe for the first twenty-mile radius around the Sanctuary entrance, so don’t worry about ghouls attacking.”

Ikalgo brushed by Gon, muttered a few words in Killua’s ear, and followed the nervous hobble of younger teens up the elevator to the surface of the Burnside.

The gears clanked and rumbled, wires and cables screeching with each button pressed and lever pulled. Killua grumbled, leaning back and wiping grime from his face.

Gon strode over to his side, smirking towards him.

“You’re a natural leader,” he said.

Killua scoffed, hardly bothering to acknowledge him. The thin trickles of light slipping through the elevator shaft dappled his skin, highlighting the generous curve to his cheekbone.

“Don’t let my brother hear that,” Killua mumbled. “And how would _you_ know, anyway?” He glared at Gon, dark pupils shifting and bouncing in his irises like a ping-pong ball. “You act like a rogue, like someone who doesn’t know what direction is up.”

Gon chuckled at this, shaking his head.

“Mm, I’ll give you a pass.”

Killua clicked his tongue. Rolled his eyes.

“For what?” he asked, though it was soft and pliant. A whisper seeking some form of shelter in the echoing caves.

Gon latched onto those scarce words, drinking them in like a bottle of vodka.

“For not knowing anything past the safety of your home,” he said, his smile wide enough to dimple both cheeks.

Killua turned to him, his normally aggravated features suddenly drawn into a blank, gaping canvas. He studied him, the shock turning into something unreadable, something that rendered Gon’s chest to tighten just slightly.

“I…” Killua clamped his mouth shut, and shook his head. “I’ve been out there.”

“But not far enough,” said Gon. “But I’ll show you, when we’re up there.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” said Killua, far too quickly, far too…

Restrained? Curious?

Gon wasn’t sure, but he wanted to hear him talk more. Wanted to listen to whatever this mysterious, silver-and-white boy unafraid to venture to the red-drenched wastes thought about the world. What he considered to be right and wrong, what he believed was the scariest possible fate someone could endure in places far worse, far more daring than what lingered in the Burnside.

He glanced up, and smirked, casually leaning closer to Killua’s space to breathe a few hushed words into his ear.

“Elevator’s here, _Mr. Zoldyck_ ,” said Gon. He jumped back, cackling, as Killua instinctively reached out to clock him in the jaw, his entire body stiff and face scrunched up in fury. “Aw, lighten up, Kil-lu-a—”

“Do you even _get it_ , asshole? We’re _not friends_!” Killua snapped. “You’re—I don’t know why the hell I even bothered trying to help you, honestly. But this, whatever you’re trying to do, manipulate me or whatever—it’s not going to work.” He shook his head, never once breaking eye contact with the arrogant fire brimming in Gon’s eyes. “I’m giving you a chance. No funny business. Believe me, you’ll regret it.”

A deep, grating sensation, darker than charcoal and richer than spring flowers, rose within Gon’s body and consumed the questions he wanted to ask. He felt his hands twitch, his brows raising to his hairline, an awed opening set apart his lips.

“I can’t wait to see you use a gun.”

Killua blinked, gobsmacked.

“Well, see you in the Burnside, Killua!” chirped Gon, gradually hopping into the elevator.

Killua sputtered and followed suit, angrily shoving the other, laughing teen into the iron grating. He moved to the other side of the cage and quickly pulled one of the spare levels on the bars.

“Dumbass,” growled Killua, stiff as a board.

Gon grinned victoriously, putting his hands in his pockets.

The sound of the gears turning once more, and the sight of pebbles and dust tumbling from the ceiling. Stalagmites greeted them as sunlight spilled from the impending outside world, destined to drown out the shadows and distant thrumming of water falling onto stones.

“By the way,” said Gon, “you were wrong, about there not being any monsters closeby.”

Killua rolled his eyes.

“I already scanned the perimeter this morning with a different patrol. We had to clear the area before any of us were ready to—”

“Mm, no. Not ghouls or anything.” Gon shrugged, lips stressed to a thin line. He bobbed his head, further considering the thought as silence developed between them.

“Then what are you even—”

The elevator shook and moved to a stagnant lockdown, silencing Killua.

Blinding, blood-red sunlight stained the open mouth of the cave. Heat rushed through and flitted over Gon’s shoulders and ruffled his sleeves. He instinctively breathed in, lifting the cotton rag over his mouth and adjusting his goggles.

He stepped forward, eager to taste the energy. The fight. The world as it continued to burn.

“I’m saying,” continued Gon, turning halfway to face Killua, “that I’d rather live out here, in these wastes, fighting ghouls and killing mutant Ants, than live where you do right here.”

Killua’s skin—so smooth, pale as the moon and too unblemished for the Burnside—turned paler. Stark white. Paper sucked entirely of color.

Gon hummed under his breath and sunk his boots into the scarlet dust.

Killua was cautious behind him. Very feline in his motions.

“Just keep moving, Freecss,” said Killua.

It took every muscle inside Gon to prevent a laugh from breaking out. He looked forward, eager to feel the hot sun as boiled and beat like a disembodied heart in a plum sky.

He had, in some way, missed the taste of a world swallowed up in its own ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGAIN, THANK YOU SO MUCH. Don't worry, the pace picks up. 
> 
> You're all wonderful and I don't deserve your love but it would mean the world if you left your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading and I'll see you next time!


	3. Scarlet Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours bled into seconds counted by a beating heart, fainter than the hissing of a cicada in a jungle, or the fluttering of butterfly wings. Time was felt through its weight and the implied substance it held in this new reality—a reality that rejected the concept altogether, and these were the thoughts that Killua Zoldyck brought with him each time he stepped outside of the Sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone. I'm so, so sorry for the wait. Hope you enjoy the next chapter.

Each day and night, the earth—now consumed in a consistent pattern of draining itself—seemed to glow with death. This hardly seemed possible to Killua, as death was often synonymous with darkness, with decaying things. Those were part of the natural order of what he believed to be true, being raised under his mother’s invisible marionette strings.

Hades was a being of death and shadow, of darkness and the underworld, and he had taken Persephone, an ethereal symbol of springtime and goodness and blossoming flowers. She didn’t belong in his world, nor he did he belong in hers. Yet their realities intersected, and higher beings attempted to bring order to those elements.

Those stories never truly resonated with Killua, not in the way his family had hoped when he was more oblivious to the reasoning behind the Sanctuary’s impenetrable walls.

Instead, the only consistent truth lied in the ability to perceive when time continued to matter.

Hours bled into seconds counted by a beating heart, fainter than the hissing of a cicada in a jungle, or the fluttering of butterfly wings. Time was felt through its weight and the implied substance it held in this new reality—a reality that rejected the concept altogether, and these were the thoughts that Killua Zoldyck brought with him each time he stepped outside of the Sanctuary.

“You doing alright, there?”

Killua adjusted his goggles, squinting into the bright red sand flying skyward.

“Yeah. Just running over the usual protocol.”

“Didn’t we already do that…?” Ikalgo’s voice was muffled, static behind his mask. “You worry too much, Killua. Besides, it was your decision to bring the… new guy, I guess, out here. You already stepping back on your word?”

Killua glanced sideways at Gon, who was standing perfectly still on top of one of the boulders guarding the hidden gates. His back was turend to them, though he showed no signs of trying to make an escape.

“No.” Killua pulled out his watch. “I’m not regretting anything. We’ve barely even started.”

Ikalgo was carrying more weapons today, and the extra layers to his utility belt and the metal contraptions strapped to his boots were pieces Killua hadn’t seen before.

“Why are you so decked out for a patrol?”

Ikalgo didn’t seem phased by the question, shrugging.

“Why are you daydreaming more than normal?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Killua sighed and quickly trotted to the front of the anxiously twitching group of trainees, each one barely shedding enough baby fat to qualify for this expedition.

“Alright, all of you, stay close behind Ikalgo and I while we take a practiced route. It should be clear of any ghouls at this time. If you spot something, don’t hesitate to alert us, but if you think you see something, _hold your fire_.  There’s no telling what a poor maggot-face bastard will do to rip out your throat. Trust me, it’s not pretty.”

No one said a word after that. It was a welcome change for Killua and Ikalgo, to begin the patrol with not even one question distracting them from their task.

Days before, Killua and Ikalgo had paid enough attention to their patrols to map certain coordinates and routes into their tracking watches, creating usable trails that were effective even after they would finish scanning, recording and scouting the chosen area.

And this route they had chosen wound in a sidewinding stripe through the Burnside, looping around abandoned farmhouses, a mobile home park filled with vehicles torn to metal slivers and shreds, and the makings of what seemed to be campsites. Tents and piles of logs were riddled in bright red ash, the smell of oil and burning sulfur scratching through Killua’s protective mask even after treading this side of their territory for umpteenth time.

“You know, asking them to hold their fire when they see a ghoul isn’t a good idea.”

Killua inhaled sharply to prevent from exploding. He braced his heel, nodded towards Ikalgo, and glared at Gon, who was standing on top of a pile of boulders and peering through a pair of binoculars—

Wait.

“Those are _my_ binoculars!”

Gon lowered the device and squinted down at him. Even with the mask shielding his features, the dimples in his cheeks were unmistakable.

“Yeah, you left them on the counter before we strolled up in that wacky elevator!” He chuckled, twisting several knobs and gears that extended and lowered the scope of the binoculars. “These are pretty impressive. What’s with the giant Z monogrammed on it, though? I don’t think I’ve heard of this brand, before…”

Killua snorted.

He knew what this idiot was trying to do, and he was not going to fall for any tricks.

“You know why,” said Killua, waving him off. “Just, get down here! I can’t keep babysitting you. Didn’t you say in that trial that you were useful enough to walk through the Burnside without getting yourself killed?”

Gon slid down from the rocks, dust kicking off his boots.

“You’re right,” he said, suddenly looming close and secretive, his voice dropping a solid octave or two, “I do know who made these. And who made just about everything pretty underground. I’ve seen these binoculars before, in places that you haven’t even touched yet. And I know exactly where those places are.” He adjusted the straps of his own traveling bag, and pointed confidently through the giant haze of sand and gravel that misted a barrier between their world and another. “I came from beyond there. Nowhere near the Burnside. Not from here, where Red Ghouls can find you at any point.”

Killua turned away from him, nerves tingling under his skin. His tongue tasted like paper.

“Whatever. I’m open to suggestions later, after we’re finished taking complete rookies through this entire regime.”

“Hm. I don’t really see the point in having them all come out here when they’re not prepared for everything.” Gon scratched his scalp, and started to bounce on the balls of his feet. He was nearly vibreating with energy. “Oh, didn’t I tell you about the Death Whispers?”

“We’ve been over this,” said Killua, though his interest was piqued. “I’ve heard of them before. Death Whispers aren’t here, not in this corner of the Burnside. Whatever you’re thinking of isn’t even relevant to our patrol.”

Gon shook his head. “Well, Killua—”

“Zoldyck.”

“Killua,” said Gon, shoulders shaking with laughter as Killua resisted every urge to shove him into the sand, “I wasn’t saying we should avoid them.”

Killua paused, and signaled with a wave of his arm for Ikalgo to stop. His friend returned the gesture and moved the younger residents into a circle, counting them off. His voice was clipped in the distance, a static rumble.

Killua glanced at Gon, uncertain.

“Death Whispers are huge, covered in scales. When we hunted them, back with my group, we would use their flesh and scales for armor protection. And, their blood is actually good for medicines! Not very sturdy ones, but after I came back from one of my missions, Kite was able to mix Death Whisper blood with other leftover chemicals we had, and our botanist was able to mix them together for a new poultice!”

Killua snorted. “A botanist.”

Apparently, this fool would believe anything, if he even considered thinking that a regular botanist would be able to create a miracle potion out of Death Whisper blood. It sounded ludicrous, and not one ounce of Killua believed him.

“Yep!” Gon nodded vigorously. “He disappeared before we entered the Sanctuaries, but let me tell you, Killua, Death Whispers are worth killing if we find them.” He turned his attention to the waiting group, their backs turned to them. “But to fight one correctly, you’ll have to show these guys how to do it, before they react badly and scare them off. Oh, or make them angry. It’s a bad idea to do that. Trust me. One time, I ran after a Death Whisper with an old club baton, and it nearly took my arm off.”

Killua slapped him on the back. Gon blinked.

“Listen,” he started, “my job is to make sure that all of you, and yes, that includes _you_ , alleged criminal, return to the Sanctuaries in one piece after we get what we came out here for. We’re not on a crazy expedition hunting Red Ghouls and Death Whispers. Hell, even regular ghouls aren’t on our radar. We came out here to look for resources, nothing more.”

Gon was quiet after that.

Two hours passed, and nothing but bone-dry soil and dilapidated cars greeted them. The sky hung dark and thick over their heads, brandished in certain spots like an oil stain running on white cotton. He thought back to the farmhouse, to the photograph he’d plucked from beneath the floorboards, and wondered if those same people ever believed the force of the Aether Waves when they took the world right from beneath their feet.

“Mr. Zoldyck,” said one of the young-bloods, his voice cracking, “can we stop and turn around soon? Some of us are a little tired.”

Killua turned around, and squinted. He recognized the unruly dark hair smothered beneath the cap, and the cautious coffee-brown eyes observing him with hidden anguish and worry. He was shaking like a leaf, and Killua wanted to swallow a bomb at the fact that he hadn’t left the more inexperienced troops behind for Bisky to watch over.

“If you’re tired after only two hours, you shouldn’t even consider ascending the ranks.” 

Ikalgo stared at him, opened his mouth, and decided against it.

Killua lifted his watch. The screen flickered green and faded every ten seconds, a slow beep that signified there weren’t any changes in their vicinity.

“We’ve gone through this route probably too many times,” whispered Ikalgo, dark eyes flicking back and forth over Killua’s shoulder, “which means that we won’t be able to find anything unless we go off of Bisky’s trail.”

“I’ve already thought of that,” said Killua. “But, if we return with results from other routes, Bisky won’t accept the data, and even worse, she won’t approve for it to be shown to my brother. Of all of his fucked up traits, Illumi won’t bother looking over results from an area he hasn’t approved for scouting himself.”

Ikalgo stepped away from him, his head sharply turning to where the group of younger teenagers watched them with bated breath. Their anxieties, their fears, their inevitable reluctance to step out onto these sun-burned sands at all, were fogging up Killua’s mind.

Gon stepped forward.

“I know a different trail.”

“We didn’t ask you,” said Ikalgo, bristling and stepping forward before Killua could even open his mouth. “We shouldn’t have even brought you with us! You don’t even know what we’re really looking for, right? So how would you know?”

Gon’s head tilted. Killua wondered if he was smirking behind his mask.

“You care for your men, right?”

Ikalgo spluttered, thick eyebrows scrunching together.

Killua studied Gon cautiously, weighing between the possible options. His hand drifted over to his belt, palming the hilt of a gun and an extra, collapsible baton if he needed it.

“I hardly know them, but I wouldn’t want them all to die. If I tried leading you off the right path, that would probably get us all killed.” Gon pointed towards the ever-rising wave of sand and dust, the burnt red color turning darker and darker with each step further into the scorched land. “And beyond there, that’s where you’re going to find better resources. If you’re trying to rebuild a life underground, you’re still sending off scouting parties to collect information, right?”

Ikalgo pulled out his gun, but Killua snatched his forearm. His jaw clenched, and he shook his head.

Ikalgo blinked at him, the anger in his gaze melting into one of confusion and betrayal. He wrenched himself out of Killua’s grip, staring icily into the ground.

“Explain, then.” Killua lifted his head. “Since you’re, apparently, from up here.”

Gon seemed satisfied with this. He laughed, a sound too joyful for a place so unbearably harsh.

“Well, we’ll have to get out of here soon, first. The darker it gets, the more likely the Red Ghouls will appear. Like ocean tides being pulled by the moon, the sand and dust will settle, and we’ll not only be easier to spot, but to smell.”

_Well that was oddly poetic._

Killua swallowed, and had suspicions that Gon was repeating a quote from someone else.

He carefully drew up his watch, clicking several keys and watching as the beaming red lights scattered along his holographic map dissolved all at once. He frowned, and turned off the device, leveling the suspicious glare Ikalgo was sending to both Killua and Gon, as if they had somehow had this discussion out of his earshot.

“Our scanners pick up all nearby organisms. It’s Zoldyck technology.” Ikalgo crossed his arms. “It’s not going to be that easy, to convince us, who use these watches all the time, that our sources are slipping just like that under our noses.”

Gon paused at this, brow visibly furrowing in contemplation.

“Well, that’s just not true. Sorry.”

Killua rolled his eyes. “Ikalgo, forget it. It’s not worth it. We’ll just retrace the route, and—”

Suddenly, the ground rolled under their feet, snapping like the back of a writhing snake. Killua stumbled, barely catching himself as sand swallowed up around his ankles, then his calves, then his thighs, until he was submerged waist-deep in a wave of sand. He coughed, desperation forcing him to wring his muscles to life, and push him out from the heavy layers. He crawled out, turned around, and his face washed blank with shock.

The monster was wretched, a being of two worlds that were never meant to combine. It stood on its hind legs, muscular and grotesquely thick, like the bulbous arms of a human bodybuilder, pulsing with veins and rippling with patches of mold and puss. Bulbous yellow eyes and sharp crocodile teeth were attached to a body that crossed between animal and human, both pieces tortured beyond recognition and thrust into the open world with blood that oozed black and a voice that only escaped in bullhorn screeches.

The twitching body of one of the young boys was stabbed on the end of its tail.

They had stumbled into a Death Whisper nest.

“ _No_!” Killua screamed, heart lurching and stomach dropping to his toes. He reached for the plasma handgun on his belt, and whipped out his scanner. Before he could lock onto his target, the Death Whisper screeched, gill-like slits in its neck flapping and blood-red, and turned to charge at him.

He scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his lower half, and sprinted.

He curved in a circle, right as the tail slapped onto the ground next to him. Sand and dust blasted off the impact, momentarily blinding him. He heard the _whoosh_ of the tail, and leaped right as it slapped down, barely missing him. Blood roared in his ears, and time seemed to slow as he turned with his gun ready, barely missing the mark of the Death Whisper’s crown.

He pulled back the trigger, and stopped.

Gon—in the nick of time, right as the creature was lifting its tail for another swipe—leaped onto the Death Whisper’s back, legs and arms wrapped around its torso and thick, pulsing neck. With voracious strength, he pulled the creature’s head back, earning a sharp wail from its contorted, reptilian jaw.

Killua scrambled, grabbing his gun and taking aim.

Plasma bolts shot out and struck the Death Whisper’s left eye. White flesh and blood spouted from the wound, and its screeches were deafening and distorted, like the wailing of a car engine and a strangled trombone.

“Get off of it!” Killua yelled, but was forced to dive out of the way as the Death Whisper turned and slammed its tail into the sand. “Idiot, _move_!”

Killua braced himself, and quickly scanned the area.

Where was Ikalgo? Where were the other recruits—? Were they buried under the sand? Crushed under a rockslide? Maimed? _Killed_?

He pivoted his foot into the sand and directed his gun for a second time. In this moment, Gon launched off the Death Whisper’s back, rolled in the sand, whipped out a gleaming metal knife, and slashed through the beast’s leg. Blood gushed out of its swollen flesh, and its distorted scream rattled Killua. His hands shook, his knees refusing to buckle, but every muscle constricted and tightened, as if held under a spell.

The Death Whisper turned, and locked onto Killua, a blind promise for death.

For a second, he wasn’t in the Burnside.

He felt cold, alien.

A little girl was standing in front of him, but he knew she wasn’t really there—her back to him, hair swept up from her shoulders, and the gun in her arms was too long and large, and she was untrained. Yet when the Death Whisper turned the corner in the dark steel tunnels— _not the Burnside, not the scorched surface of the earth_ —she’d braced herself, and never chanced a look behind to see if he was still at her side, still waiting for her to turn around, and move—

He saw her eyes before she was taken from him. Blue. Always blue, like cornflowers. The sky.

His entire body completely froze, fingers locked around the gun like a vice. His heart skidded, rammed and leaped along his bones. HIs wrist was shaking, but he could hardly feel it. Could hardly breathe, when the world around him kept tilting further and further to the left, and his balance seemed to topple over. His throat and tongue were drier than coals, mind blanker than a sheet of paper.

He was shocked to reality with the weight of a gigantic tail slamming into his side. Air lurched out of his lungs. He felt his body fly through the air, slamming into shrapnels of metal and glass. He winced, coughing. Warmth seeped through his uniform, liquid and undeniable.

He refused to look at the size of the wound.

_Shit._

“Fuck me,” he rasped, desperate to stand back up.

But the weight was too strong. Blood oozed through his shirt and dripped onto the dusted ground. His bones were rattling from the impact, and every sense sharpened as wailing battle cries and the sound of an animal choking and snorting echoed through the Burnside.

“I-Ikalgo!” he called, and gasped.

A gob of saliva and blood fell through his mouth. He rammed his fist into his chest and emptied what was left in his stomach onto the ground. He braced himself to his knees, and gasped at the searing pain in his side. Blood welled under his aching fingers.

His heart roared in his ears. He blinked, and looked out, to find Gon once again riding the back of the beast, strong arms attempting to wrangle it and shove its head to the ground.

He recognized Ikalgo’s stocky figure materializing through the sand, alive.

“Ikalgo, get over here! I’m…” Killua wheezed and reached over to the gun clipped to his belt. “Get me over there. That idiot’s not going to last trying to wrangle that thing down by himself.”

Ikalgo stopped, eyes blown wide.

“What? Are you—dude, no, you can’t be serious! We have to get out of here and get you back to the Sanctuary!”

“I don’t care!”

The Death Whisper tossed Gon off its back, and turned to charge at them.

“Killua, we have to move!” Ikalgo snapped.

Killua grunted, but was unable to resist when Ikalgo snatched his arm and pulled him off to the side, yanking him through the flurry of dust and sand.

“Hey!”

Killua stood up, blinked, and locked onto where he saw Gon waving his arms frantically from at least a hundred yards away. Despite the situation, he was moving enthusiastically, and it reminded Killua briefly of a worm he’d love to stomp under his shoe.

Gon ripped off his mask and cupped one hand around his mouth.

“Over here!”

Ikalgo scoffed.

“No way. We can’t go in that direction. This thing will just continue tracking us.”

The Death Whisper lunged. It took a fraction of a second for Killua to grab Ikalgo’s wrist.

“Ikalgo, I don’t care! Just fucking move!”

Killua shoved Ikalgo, and the two fo them were running.

With one hand on the wound bleeding through his side, Killua ripped the handgun off his belt, turned, pointed, and released. A stream of energy shot the Death Whisper’s eyeball, leading to an explosion of guts and veiny residue.

The Death Whisper reeled back and shook, grasping blindly at its missing eye and wheezing.

Killua huffed, gasping. A bolt of pain ripped through his entire body from that one motion. His left knee started to buckle.

“Killua, hey, bro, you have to stand up for just a little longer! Don’t pass out on me!”

Killua was close to spitting in Ikalgo’s face when he was dropped to the ground on his knees. He looked up, shaking, as Gon came over to them and hovered over the wound.

His presence was scorchingly warm, and smelling of oil and copper.

“Oh man.” Gon sighed, exasperated and far too calm considering their situation. He was crouching on his knees, lips curled into a pout and eyes shining with mischief.“That’s not good, though. Damn. You’ve got a massive gash in your side, there.”

“Thanks, _genius_ , hadn’t figured that out yet,” Killua spat, rolling his eyes. “Why don’t you,” he coughed, “make yourself useful and grab another gun or something?”

“Mm, I need something heavier.”

“You’re really going to barter with us over firearms while a Death Whisper is chasing us?” Ikalgo said, hands balling into fists over his knees.

Sweat trailed down his goggles an dover his scaly temples, and Killua needed to focus on the different colors to keep his mind in the present and not locked away in wherever his fading thoughts were heading.

“Ikalgo,” said Killua, exhaling with the pressure under his abdomen, “just give himn a fucking gun.”

Ikalgo’s jaw clenched. Then, with unbridled patience and a split-second glare at the Death Whisper hobbling over towards them, he reached over his shoulder and pulled out one long, cylindrical firearm pulsing with red and blue energy bullets. It rattled like a gong when he thrust it out for Gon to take, who grinned like a fresh lottery-winner.

The Death Whisper halted, haunches reared back and spine rippling. It began to prowl, encircling around the three men. Claws thicker than a baseball bat sunk deeper into the dust and soil.

Ikalgo hesitated and looked to Gon, the hand supporting Killua trembling. “Don’t mess with the controls, yet. We…”

He side-eyed the Death Whisper, the serpentine tail swishing slowly, tauntingly back and forth. Killua could sense Ikalgo’s own heart racing.

“Listen, Freecss, we haven’t tested it in the labs yet, and it could blow you up so you’ll have to move over there, away from the Whisper. It’s supposed to be a combination between a grenade launcher and a rifle, but that’s the most formidable gun I have—”

“Oh, no worries,” said Gon, flipping the gun back and forth in his hands, and smiling at Ikalgo with undisguised excitement, “I can handle a gun.”

With a quick turn, he balanced the hooked handle of the gun over his shoulder, and squinted through the eyepiece towards the Death Whisper, his hand folding quickly around the trigger and shoulders shifting. It clicked, ammunition capsules lodging into place, and in one swift motion he had the weapon held firmly in his hands.

Even with half of his face concealed, he radiated energy. A lust for fighting.

The hairs on Killua’s neck raised.

“Wait,” he started, choking out a panicked gasp, “don’t be stupid—”

Then, the Death Whisper lunged, but Gon was already sprinting.

Ikalgo moved to grab his baton and charge, but Killua quickly snatched his wrist.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said, voice dripping with warning.

Ikalgo glanced over him, but Killua was fixated on the scene of Gon sprinting madly through the terrain, plasma gun reeling, his movements rough and untrained and unapologetically mad.

It took exactly twelve seconds for Gon to position himself next to the Death Whisper’s torso, right when the creature swiped at him with thick, fleshy claws. Its tail slapped mindlessly in the air. Gon somersaulted, braced himself against the ground, and ripped the gun out of his holster.

“Shit,” said Killua, “he’s not going to—”

Gon cranked back the gigantic lever. Time seemed to slow, as the ammunition built up inside the gun in a contained rainbow of blue and green. In seconds, a gigantic capsule popped off the back end of the launcher, and blinding light bullets spiraled out of the gun’s mouth and assaulted the Death Whisper.

Ikalgo’s jaw dropped.

“How…”

Killua swallowed.

Within seconds, the Death Whisper’s screaming, convulsing body fell to the ground in a mass of flesh, charred bone and peeling skin. Talons twitched, the tail struggling to flail out the rest of its life. Its entire torso and face were caved in with burning, melting pasma, and it reminded Killua of one of several times he’d witnessed a ghoul charging at him with acid-scrubbed gums and teeth.

Gon lowered the gun, dropping it at his side. He rolled his shoulder, popping the bones in his neck and upper back.

“There’s no way,” said Ikalgo, shaking, “there’s no way that he could’ve known how to use it.”

When Gon turned to face them, Killua expected many things. The mask of an experienced killer, maybe, wearing the shadows of death with unbridled confidence. But the look Gon was sending towards them, with his protective mask half-peeled off and squinting bright eyes narrowed from across the landscape, Killua saw nothing malicious. Nothing evil or bloodthirsty or dangerous.

He only saw and memorized details that confused him.

Gon was smiling, gleeful. Excited, maybe. Blood and grime stained half of his body, some colored black like the monster’s. Some red, like his own.

Killua winced, and removed his hand from his side. The sight of blood flowering from between his ribs made his stomach climb to his throat.

He stumbled, and Ikalgo reached around him to steady his weight.

“We have to get you back, now,” said Ikalgo.

“We have to find the others, first!” Killua retorted, coughing.

He knew that it would be impossible to recover them all. The Death Whisper had charged out of nowhere, had sprung up out of the earth and dusted clouds like a viper in a sand dune. How many were dead? How many were still alive, alone and panicked and frightened to a standstill without their mentors to guide them?

Killua had been like them, once. So had Ikalgo. They knew how terrifying and exhilarating it was, to step out into the Burnside for the first time, to taste salt and blood on the tips of their tongues. They knew of the risks, of the sacrifices that they were willing to make if it meant being able to venture out into a world that once breathed with blue and green—with grass and animals. With life.

How many teens, children, even, did he fail on this expedition?

He felt Ikalgo straighten beside him, and was pulled back into reality.

Gon pumped his arms in a slow, lackadaisical jog, planting firmly in front of them with an air of confidence that should have left them all rattled and scattered. The sun seemed harsher, the ground seemed colder, and the bright glint in Gon’s eyes unleashed a stream of goosebumps over Killua’s body.

Ikalgo’s grip tightened on Killua’s shoulder.

“Stay _back_.”

Gon’s lips twitched.

“That’s an odd way to thank someone.”

Killua rolled his eyes, huffed, and stood as balanced as he could with his growing wound.

“I might have an hour before we have to retreat,” he said, “but you…” He nodded. “When we get back, we need to talk. And…”

Gon watched him carefully.

“We won’t be able to find them now, at this point,” he said, dismissing Killua’s earlier claims with not even a bat of an eyelash, “since the Whisper kind of threw us off your course. I can track a better way back, though. It’ll just require some heavy lifting—”

“We’re not listening to you.” Ikalgo rubbed his temple. “Look, you… somehow, used an untested weapon scarily well on whatever the fuck that thing was, but you can’t just hulk it around like it’s a toy. We need to get him back to the Sanctuary as soon as possible.”

“Mm. Yeah. But…” Gon’s brow creased. “Weren’t they your recruits?”

Killua’s chest felt heavy. A sunken weight stirring with fear, with traces of guilt and remorse.

He needed to find them.

“We’ll look. Scout the area.”

Ikalgo glanced at him, even after Killua roughly pushed him away and glared between the two men while holding his wound with one bloodied hand.

“Killua—your wound—”

“We’re looking,” said Killua, earnestly. He stared at Ikalgo, willing the pain to subside in his chest and stir within his bloodstream. “And you have painkillers and gauze on you, don’t you? So help me with that. That’s all that we can do for right now. But I’m not heading back to the Sanctuary or even going back the same way until we find them.”

Ikalgo clenched his jaw. Thick, scaled hands furling tightly over his slacks. He nodded, and adjusted the straps on his belt to pull out a roll of gauze tape and a small glass vial.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

The thick, heavy tape wrapped around Killua’s torso and the faint clipping of pebbles in the sun-burned air were not enough to distract him from the inevitable. The farther they walked, and the closer they followed their previous steps to where the Death Whisper came out of nowhere, the more he realized he needed to come to terms with a high body count.

He swallowed a rise of bile in his throat, glaring over the mass of tangled, lifeless limbs spread out in a bloody heap over the ground. Their Sanctuary uniforms, wrinkled and torn to pieces, cloaking each fallen recruit like threadbare rags. Some faces were recognizable with their masks discarded, and the sight of the vicious claw marks and various chests and stomachs torn open to reveal emptied spots, only further pushed away what was left of Killua’s optimism.

His teeth grit.

“It’s not your fault.”

Anger bubbled in Killua’s veins like a hot geyser.

It was his job to protect them.

Gon, the foolish being he was, was wrong.

It was no one’s fault but Killua’s.

Killua turned away from the other man, and refrained from admonishing Ikalgo’s blank stare from across the grotto. He breathed, shaking, trembling with every inhale and exhale, as he looked over the carnage and the barely intact, screaming faces of the victims. Eyes wide open and expressionless, frozen in time.

“Death Whispers usually travel in packs,” said Gon, as if invited to indulge in a lecture, “and the one we fought was a distraction from the real targets. We couldn’t have suspected it—”

“Fuck off, alright? _Enough_. ” Killua wiped at his nose. A spark of pain shot through his stomach, traveling back to the ever-growing wound on his side. “We need to tally up the names. For intel. Bisky will want to know who they were, so that we can bury them properly back in the Sanctuary.” His voice didn’t shake the way his lungs and heart did. “They were young.”

He told himself to be patient, even now, with the bodies spread out before him and begging to have their names remembered. It felt criminal, to return to the Sanctuary with a death count tolling far higher than he ever would have believed possible from a normal expedition.

“You know their names,” said Gon, a whisper threading through the tangible heat, “so you have that, at least. Sometimes, especially in the Burnside and places much worse, we don’t get that luxury.”

“I don’t need you to lecture me, Freecss.” Killua shook his head, a throbbing headache developing. “We have nothing to be proud of, here. They all died for no purpose. No cause. It’s a failed mission, and we have nothing to salvage.”

Gon nodded at this, his gaze sympathetic as he looked over the terrain.

“Let’s go.”

Gon blinked, and remained very still when Killua grasped at his wound and limped over to where Ikalgo had finished unbinding the watches from the bodies with their limbs still attached.

“We’re not going to leave you here. You have nowhere to go,” said Killua, sighing.

“You’re not…” Gon hesitated, tilting his head in both awe and confusion, “you’re not going to mourn?”

An electric, furious chill raced down Killua’s spine.

He remembered the first time he saw a Death Whisper. The first time he watched someone he loved die in front of him, torn to pieces, limb by limb, a discarded doll of flesh and bone that he would never be able to piece back together. He remembered slamming his fists onto metal tiles, being dragged away by his hair, by his shirt, by his own shoulders as he slammed his fingernails into the floor and cried out, desperate for her to turn and run and _save herself_ —

Ikalgo’s hand on his shoulder shocked him back to reality. He shook off the gesture, sensitive.

“Killua, we should—”

“Does it look like we have time to mourn?” Killua watched as Gon squared his shoulders and locked onto him with a face washed blank from any sincerity or killing toughness he’d seen before. “There’s never a time for this, for death. I get that. And so do you, if we were to believe everything you’ve said.”

Gon glared down at one of the bodies, ripped apart to unimaginable means. Entrails missing, devoured by a Death Whisper.

“I mean,” he began, shrugging, “I don’t have to like your rules. You just don’t strike me as someone who’d disregard them like that.”

“Want to come over here and say that to my face, Freecss?” Killua huffed. “I care about them. I have to. Maybe when you were out here you had time to bury every body, but we don’t. So come on, and don’t fight with me on this.”

The look Gon wore was unreadable. Eyes stone-cold and impassive, lips tightly set in a line, hands flat on his trousers.

Killua tilted his chin up, and snorted.

“Come on,” he said to Ikalgo, who spluttered in response but obliged nonetheless.

Gon was unresponsive on the journey back, but the silence did little to quell Killua’s nerves.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

Deaths were expected, but not common, occurrences.

When the Zoldyck Sanctuaries were established, this was understood. Respected, even. Silva Zoldyck had offered widespread protection to anyone applying for residence, and the rapidly growing success with undercutting botanical gardens, medical supplies, and sick bays made it possible for their funding to grow. Bodies were detailed as being appropriately mourned when requested by any living or accomodating family member, and then cremated to allow space and reusable compost material to keep the remaining residents happy.

Killua pressed one finger to his pulse, following the trail of scars winding down his bare chest, to his stomach, and disappearing under his sweats. The lines were pale and thick, an ugly tarnish on what his own mother had claimed to be “smooth as porcelain” skin. Her words were honey and viper’s poison, lingering even now, seemingly forever after her death.

His reflection stared back at him. His eyes were sunken and purpling with exhaustion.

With a quick clearing of his throat, he left the curtained shower stall to grab his folded clothes. Steam and the scent of Zoldyck-printed spearmint shampoo wafted trhough the bathroom. Discarded towels were left drying on iron racks, though none of them seemed familiar. He often came in here alone to wash up, especially after patrols or early in the morning after exercising in the training facility.

“Hi Killua.”

Killua jumped. He braced himself on the countertop to calm the racing of his heart. He then snorted, his eyes rolling almost exaggeratedly.

_Go figure._

Gon Freecss grinned from outside the shower stall, pulling a loose gray shirt over his abdominals. The dark tresses of his hair were still slicked and wet, and despite the definite shadows framing his jawline and staining his cheekbones, he seemed far too bright and happy for this early in the morning.

It couldn’t have been past six o’clock.

“… Why are you up?” Killua asked, suspicious. “You’re technically on our parole system. Where’s your brace?”

“Oh, right here.” Gon held up his arm, where the familiar black band glinted and beeped silently. His cheesy smile was childish and seemed out of place with the muscular rounding of his shoulders and exposed arms. “I kind of requested from Bisky for an earlier rotation for the showers. Worked out pretty late last night.”

Killua rubbed his neck, sighing.

“So you’re in good graces with her, now?” His frown deepened. “What are you trying to pull?”

Gon shook his head, grabbing another towel and wringing it through his hair. Killua watched him, stiff with the impulse to jump or attack if need be. Even though Gon hardly posed any threat over the last several months in the Sanctuary, he hardly seemed worthy to trust given their circumstances.

“Well, I’m living here now, aren’t I?”

Killua’s lips twitched. He leaned back against the wall, arms folded.

“You’re under watch.”

Gon paused at this, pulling his towel off his head. Water droplets sprayed onto the tiles.

“At least you’re expanding your scouting perimeters.” He looked over to Killua, suddenly thoughtful with the way Killua’s brow arched in speculation. “So, what’s your deal, hm?”

Killua peeled himself off the wall.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t like me. That much is obvious.”

Gon’s dry chuckle echoed loudly in the confined room. Killua straightened and glared in response, his muscles tightening and old wound from months prior suddenly growing sensitive and sparked, as if they were still out in those dunes. Still avoiding the deadly swipes and pounces of a Death Whisper.

“It’s not exactly my job to like you.”

“I like you, though.”

“Sure you do. I’m keeping you alive.” Killua shrugged. “We’re not friends, you know. Sure, you’ve helped in our… recent expeditions, and making some clearer routes available for patrols. But I’m your superior in every way. Everything we do is meant to make the Sanctuary a better place. And you being here is more of a help than a hindrance.”

He could feel Gon watching him. His skin prickled.

“Quit staring at me,” he added, glaring at the door.

“Let’s have coffee, then.”

Killua froze. Blinking, he turned around and acknowledged Gon, who grinned at him from by the countertops with his ankles crossed and strong arms lax over his chest. He seemed so relaxed, so strangely familiar despite the ocean of differences and unsaid secrets brewing between them.

It never left Killua’s mind, how easily Gon killed the Death Whisper. How he looked after he’d killed something so large and deadly, smile bright and victorous and riding off the high of adrenaline.

When Gon’s suggestion finally sunk in, Killua sharply turned away. Heat spread from the nape of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“The coffee here tastes like wet napkins.”

“There’s cream and sugar. I saw some.”

“I like—uh, tea.”

“Oh, wait. You like hot chocolate, don’t you?”

Gon hummed in mock-thought, tapping his chin. He had the audacity to grin towards Killua as if they already shared some terrible secret, like they were children in a pillow fortress exchanging stories of knights rescuing princesses and dragons burning down villages.

Killua scoffed.

“We’re not going to—”

“Sounds good, Killua. It’s a date.”

“It’s not a date, moron,” said Killua, with far more bite than he intended.

Gon chewed on his lip, tilting his head. “But Killua, wouldn’t it be easier for us if we got along? I mean, we live in the same place, work some of the same patrols. Hell, even Bisky enjoys having me around just as much as you.”

“If you somehow got that impression, you’re an idiot.” Killua cautiously took a step backward as Gon motioned over towards him, his movements slow and calculated. Light amber-brown eyes scanned Killua from head to toe, out of curiosity, he guessed. “Pick someone else to obsess over, Freecss. I’m not a target for your games.”

“Just wondering why you can’t really stand me. Or at least, why you think you don’t.”

Killua flushed red and snorted. He glanced away, the heavy bobbing in his throat far more distracting than the misty clouds swelling up the shower rooms.

“Well, for starters,” said Killua, “you’re annoying. And you try to step on my toes during patrols. You might be naturally talented with guns, but believe me,” he huffed, “I’m no one to underestimate.”

Gon’s grin widened.

“I don’t underestimate you.”

“Sure you don’t.” Killua raised an eyebrow, challenging the far too obvious glint on Gon’s features. “People think Zoldycks are worth glossing over. Like we’re pretending to be wolves when we’re sheep. But listen here,” he jabbed a finger into Gon’s chest, his stare hardening into glass, “I’m not goign to let you, or _anyone_ , push me around. You got that? When you’re living in our Sanctuary, you’re living by _my_ rules. I saved your life so you can benefit us, not so we can become _friends_.”

Gon’s eyes flickered down to Killua’s finger, and then back up towards him. He chuckled, stepping back and raising his hands in a soft surrender.

“You’re a prodigy, through and through. It’s amazing.”

Killua snorted at this. “Yeah? Then what’s with the act?”

“Act?” Gon blinked, one eye at a time. “I’m not—oh, so that’s why. You think I’m acting!” He huffed out a laugh, and his shoulders shook from the weight of it. The power of his amusement rattled him to the bone, and it was an alien sight to Killua. “I like you, Killua. I like learning from you. But you and your octopus friend aren’t the ones who figured out how to use that plasma rifle from our first patrol together. That was all me.”

Killua’s teeth grit. The memory struck him like an ice pick.

“True. I’m not delusional. You handled that a little too well.” His nose wrinkled in suspicion. “Just don’t get in my way. I have more power over you here.”

“Hm.” Gon leaned over into his space, hands sliding down into his pockets. Still soaking wet from his shower, he smelled of fresh-cut grass and cucumbers. “Got it. Don’t get in your way. Makes sense. I can do that. But, Killua,” he grinned for emphasis, “what if I want to?”

Killua almost balked.

“You…” He frowned. “That literally makes zero sense.”

“I don’t think it makes zero sense. It just might not follow your logic.”

And with that, Gon stepped out of his path, strolled past him and patted him on the shoulder before disappearing into the hall.

Killua frowned, each thought rolling through and ticking by like hands in a clock.

The empty, uncomfortable slog in his chest curled up.

Fifty minutes later, he wasn’t expecting to find anyone in the vicinity of the cafeteria. Empty trays were slotted by the overturned metal counters. A line of refrigerator compartments were stacked up against the walls. Numbered dials were slotted next to the door handles, glowing with an orange bar of light to signify the temperature and type of sustenance stored inside.

He exhaled into the quiet, and grabbed a paper cup next to a singular coffeemaker. Various unfinished bags of coffee grounds stared at him mockingly from behind brands both owned and purchased by the Zoldyck name. He recognized older flavors—favorites he’d believed lost in time, back when his mother was still alive and drank coffee religiously until it caused blemishes to appear on her ivory skin.

His lips curled at the memory.

“Killua.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“… Hi, Bisky.”

“Mm. Yeah, that’s what I thought you were going to say.”

Bisky strolled over to him, wearing a button-up green blouse and slacks. Her hair was swept up in a bun on her head. She hopped on the counter and watched him expectantly.

Killua raised an eyebrow at her.

“… What?”

“You’re pretty grumpy this morning.” Bisky balanced her chin on her hand, eyes twinkling and mischievous. He immediately didn’t trust whatever she was about to say. “I have an assignment for you.”

“When don’t you?” Killua shrugged. “Do you ever ask anyone else to do things around here?”

“Not everyone else is the Warden’s kid brother.”

Killua grumbled a complaint behind his cup, which was still empty. He glared into the empty space and silently, for once, mulled over the suggestion Gon made less than an hour prior in the showers.

“We need to extend our border.”

Killua hesitated, his grip on the cup tightening. Denting.

“… Was this Illumi’s suggestion?”

He already knew the answer.

“It was a consul decision. Morel and Knov felt comfortable with it as well, especially with your progress these last few months. It was a good idea to keep them around, you know. They’ve been quite helpful in our expeditions in the Burnside, and even recovering some older locations that we wouldn’t have checked out beforehand. It pays to have stowaways, who would have thought?”

Killua frowned, pensive. “We’ve only had Freecss out on the more extensive patrols. Not sure about his friends. After the Death Whisper attack I’ve tried making it clear that we can’t keep staying back in the Burnside.”

Bisky nodded. “Agreed.”

Killua opened his mouth, and closed it on reflex.

“You… what?”

She never agreed with him on these. Usually their arguments spanned through many counseling sessions and consul meetings in the main chamber, far from listening ears and skeptical eyes.

“I’m saying that I agree.” Bisky paused. “Well, to a degree.”

“Here we go,” Killua mumbled.

“Hey, brat, don’t get snarky with me this early. We don’t want to repeat those same mistakes with what happened in your patrol less than two months ago. I understand that. We all do. Death Whispers, or whatever you call them, aren’t a common occurrence this close to the Sanctuaries.” She whipped out a small notepad and pen, clicking it pointedly. “And soon, I want you to be heading out to the Burnside, and even farther. Officially. You, and Gon Freecss.”

Killua blinked, his jaw clenching tight.

“You—,” he shook his head, laughing, “what are you even talking about?”

“You and Gon Freecss.” Bisky’s grin was far too knowing for this to be coincidental. “He’s been proving himself to be a pretty formidable temp. Been working shifts with me every morning, running through our growing recruits from even other neighboring Sanctuaries for a better patrolling system. His outside knowledge is beneficial, Killua. You’d be wise to listen to what he can give. It’s basically free intel. The guy operates knowing that he and his buddies are given shelter and safety.”

 _They’re still prisoners_ , Killua wanted to say. The words were lodged behind his teeth, desperate for escape, for validation. He was already trying to keep his distance from people he was willing to save from execution or expulsion from the Sanctuaries, but there was a fine line between performing a selfish good deed and forming friendships with temporary residents.

Temporary. They were temporary.

He needed to remind himself of this.

“I’m not taking him on patrol again. Sign up Ikalgo to take it with me.”

“I wasn’t asking,” said Bisky, with an exaggerated pop to her hip. “He’s quite adept with guns. A natural. Just a little bit reckless, but you have that impulse control that most of the other young ones lack, don’t you?”

Killua groaned, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“Why me…?” He sighed, carding one hand through his hair.

“Because you’re in line to take your brother’s place. You’re a Zoldyck. Your name is on the vault’s fucking entrance. Start to act like you’re proud to have it on there.”

Bisky hopped off the counter and scribbled an extra few lines into her notes.

“What are those for?” Killua asked.

“Nothing you need to worry about for now.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

He was already twitchy and flighty from having one of the strangest conversations of his life earlier in the shower rooms with Gon, and Bisky’s sudden announcement was only raising his blood pressure. He knew he would never complain about any of this to Illumi without risking another confrontation with either Bisky or Knov, and neither of those options sounded credible.

“Oh look, just the man I wanted to see.”

Killua glanced up to see Gon rounding the corner, his parole band firmly clamped around his wrist and body snug in a freshly laundered gray jumpsuit. The muted fabric and worn, frayed letters and numbers printed on the breast pocket reminded Killua of the many older veterans he’d witnessed build this Sanctuary from the beginning; engineers of varying backgrounds and intelligence, all answering to his father and brother.

“Morning, ma’am!” he greeted.

Bisky grinned. “Formalities aren’t totally necessary, Freecss. You saw the report I left in your cell?”

Gon nodded, hands folded behind his back. His smile was bright, though this seemed to never change.

It unnerved Killua. How could someone constantly be smiling like that in the face of entirely different situations? If he could wear that same expression after killing a Death Whisper, what would it look like in other life-or-death scenarios?

_Wait…_

The wheels in Killua’s mind began to turn.

“You—you already knew we were shoved together for this!”

Gon glanced over towards him, and that same grin almost looked apologetic.

“I thought you already knew.”

“You lying little _bastard_ ,” said Killua, mumbling and fiercely gripping the empty cup in his hand. His intentions of filling the cup with water were forgotten the moment Bisky stepped into the room. “Why play around and pretend like you don’t know anything when BIsky told you first that we were being forced to work together on this?”

“Aw, I don’t consider it forcing,” said Gon, chuckling at the growing red color blossoming on Killua’s fair skin.

“Well, you’ll both have to hit the books. The climate’s about to change.” Bisky paused and pressed the beeping device clipped around her earrings. “Hold on one moment—ah, hello Morel! Yes, I told you that the meeting was shifted. Yes, I’ll be there. Be patient, old man. Jesus.” She shut it off and clapped her hands together. “Alright, you two, play nice. Killua, don’t be too ridiculous about this. And Freecss, keep yourself in order. Remember, you’re being monitored.”

She was gone before Killua could muster another word.

Gon turned to him, shrugging.

“To be fair, I really did think that you already knew.”

“I don’t…” Killua pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care, alright? We’ll make this mission quick into… wherever we’re headed. If it’s just the two of us or we bring Ikalgo along or something, maybe we’ll have a better chance of resources and scouting.”

Gon dipped his head, thoughtful. “You’re going to have to trust me sooner or later, Killua.”

Killua ignored him, turning around to glare awkwardly at the empty coffeemaker.

“So.”

Gon came over to the counter, and lowered his head to meet Killua’s eyes.

“Coffee date, then?”

Killua groaned loudly enough to wake his father from beyond the grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, everyone. Cannot thank you enough.


	4. Dappled White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, all! Thank you for your incredible support. I will be trying to catch up to comments ASAP.

****There were only fifty-six books available for rental in this corner of the Sanctuary.

Gon folded his arms, head tilting like that of a tomcat while he sized up the length of the private selection of books. Several titles popped out as familiar to him, names and themes embossed in heavy bold letters on multiple leather coverings. He skimmed his fingers over the spines.

“No escort today?”

Gon retracted his hand, and flashed a smile at Ikalgo, who entered the sliding doorway to the small, contained room with an air of confidence that seemed out of place in this area. Ikalgo usually followed Gon when he thought he wasn’t paying attention, taking notes and muttering under his breath to fellow officers when he passed. Sometimes the attention wore thin, and tempted Gon to speak to him directly, and other times he would rather shrug off the mild insults than indulge Ikalgo’s jabs.

“Why’re you asking me?” Gon asked. “You’re his loyal confidante, right?”

“Don’t get smart with me, Freecss.” Ikalgo paused, intelligent eyes drawing in Gon’s form. Picking him apart. “Not sure why people even like you. Even though you’re a prisoner here, you’ve got all sorts of special treatment. Like you’re some special attraction.”

Gon shrugged, though he did not deny this. Bisky, in particular, was keen on assigning him many tasks. Her attentiveness to his rounds, and her insistence that he remain close to Killua’s schedule led to them colliding several times. Killua’s frequent dismissals and lack of interest in associating with him only pushed Gon further into a state of mind where he wanted to know more about the mysterious Zoldyck.

The brother to a Sanctuary Warden…

Kite often spoke of his adventures, though none of them entailed stories involving the Sanctuaries. He avoided talking about them in lieu of teaching Gon the ways of the growing desert landscapes. Houses and taller buildings smothered in dust and ash. As a child, he’d known these images as ghosts, _phantoms_ of what they once were—skeletal blueprints marked with the incoming footsteps of man and beast, all intertwined in insurmountable levels.

“People like what they like. Can’t really fault them for that.” He leaned back against the counter. “Also, you don’t have that great of a selection here.”

He held back a satisfied smile at the sound of Ikalgo scoffing under his breath.

“You don’t even have _The Marvelous Adventures of Yves Mavon_. It’s a classic!” Gon grinned at Ikalgo, winking. “I mean, I could always go search for an old, lonely library, pick out the books they’re not using… unless the ghouls have learned how to read. That would be something pretty new, right? Better get on that.”

Ikalgo’s glare sharpened. “Surprised you even know what reading is.”

“Whoa, uncalled for, Ikalgo.” Gon placed a hand over his heart, fluttering his lashes. “You could kill people with your cruel words.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ikalgo came over to him, keeping a considerable distance. He smelled like lemon soap and laundry detergent, mixed with other chemicals Gon was able to pick up easily.

“Where’s Killua?”

“Zoldyck.” Ikalgo glared at him, something venomous slicking his words. “He’s Zoldyck, to you.”

“Hm. Think he’s okay with me calling him Killua.”

Gon turned his head just slightly, matching Ikalgo with the level of own stare. He could read the many battles and buried occurrences that hung around this Chimera-blooded man, though none of it was enough to intimidate him. Very few things could.

“In fact, he insisted that I do. And, he’s not my keeper. And I’m not his.” He grinned, reaching over to pat Ikalgo on the shoulder. “Are you his keeper?”

Ikalgo spluttered, stepping farther away from him. Without his goggles, stray patches of reddish-brown hair and the entirety of his animalistic eyes were exposed for all to see. And currently, his face, both flesh and scale, was burning red with a blush.

“O-Of course not, but—”

“Do you know where he is, by the way?” Gon rocked on his heels, fixing his attention on the door. “Was going to browse these before asking him what we needed in our next mission, but since you came instead, you should know where he is, right?” His smile widened. “So, where is he? I’d really like to go look for him.”

Ikalgo snorted.

“You’re just… fucking around with me. Whatever. Killua’s speaking to his brother. You know, the Warden?”

Gon blinked. “Oh. Right. I forgot that he was so important.”

“T-That’s bullshit! You didn’t forget—”

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

Gon stepped around him, hands calmly lodged in his pockets, as the sound of Ikalgo’s indignant stuttering filtered through his eardrums. He approached the door, whistling an old lullaby under his breath as he tapped in the number command on the keypad. Within seconds, the door opened, allowing him a view of the southern corridor in the Sanctuary.

For the last two months, he’d been prepared. Ready to approach every single mission with utmost clarity, precision, calculation, and many other attributes that Kite and his father had instilled into him before he was released into the Burnside. The desert atmosphere lapped at his throat and constricted thousands of unspoken words in his lungs, though this never made him truly hesitate. Not enough for him to pause and rethink the many strategies he’d memorized into patterns and linguistics—they swam in currents whenever he spoke, whenever he slept, like notes in a sheet of music.

Even as an esteemed “guest” in the Sanctuary, these faces Gon passed were far from familiar. He would wave, occasionally smile at some of the younger trainees fresh out of their respective classes, but none of them bothered to give him a glance. They would duck their heads and be on their way, and this succeeded in weighing down Gon’s lungs more than a gob of Death Whisper sludge.

He scrunched his nose at the thought. The Death Whisper attack two months prior delivered a sharp alarm through the entire Sanctuary, frightening the residents and causing the Warden Zoldyck to add a plethora of new rules that, frankly, didn’t seem needed.

Curfews were added into timeslots. The patrolling squadrons were limited in their outreach unless Killua was attached to the helm, which seemed even more ridiculous to Gon. Why would his older brother insist that the younger, the _heir_ , take the bigger risk?

The Warden passed through these corridors like a phantom. His eyes were too deep, features too sunken for Gon to trust entirely. Kite had talked about many people like him, who latched onto their enemies like chains and pushed them to the brink in whatever way they could.

He seemed different from Killua in that respect, though Gon couldn’t quite place it. While Killua was talented, sometimes abrasive, and overbearingly cautious, he was forthright and honest with his comrades. It was obvious as to why Ikalgo, Bisky, and several other older and younger Sanctuary residents both feared and respected him.

“Looking for the brat?”

Gon paused, short of breath for only a moment, when he locked onto the person who entered his vicinity.

“Meleoron,” he said, shoulders loosening in relief, “it’s good to see you.”

The chameleon Ant checked his periferals before grinning at Gon, and smacking their hands together in a strong handshake. They often shared these greetings when they were sent off to patrol the borderlines of Central Pointe together, Kite’s watchful eyes turning away only when he felt he could trust them. Meleoron was an expert in stealth mechanics, and to have him in brief excursions with Gon led to higher success than most of the other groups who left during the same hours.

“Took forever for them to let me out, y’know,” said Meleoron, sighing. “They’ve still got Zushi kept in quarantine, though.”

“What?” Gon’s hands clenched into fists. “Why—Zushi was hardly involved in the investigation to begin with. He didn’t even want to come with us at first—”

“Shut up! I know, I know!” Meleoron groaned, dragging both hands down his face. The knobs in his bony fingers seemed gaunter, and made Gon pause. “Look, we can’t worry ‘bout him right now, alright? We gotta continue with our objective. Can’t return to Kite empty-handed.”

Gon hummed in consideration. “We won’t return empty-handed…” he rubbed his neck. “I don’t think we should rush this, though. And, I think he may be wrong about some things.”

Meleoron scoffed. “You’re joking, right? Pulling my leg, Gon?”

Gon grinned dryly. “No.”

How would he be able to explain this? There were too many questions brewing in this Sanctuary. Secrets threaded throughout these halls and probed his curiosity, and that was reason alone to keep their mission’s length to a minimum. Recovering any encrypted files from the Warden’s office—or wherever the intimidating ghoul of a man kept his private information—would require a much lengthier investigation. Meleoron would have to remain patient, as would Zushi.

“There’s a lot of potential here.” Gon fixed Meleoron with a contemplative stare, many conflicting thoughts brewing in the center. “I think that the Zoldycks have bigger objectives than what we originally thought. I don’t think anything we do here will actually put a stop to any operation unless we know for sure where we’re heading, and why we’re making that choice…”

Meleoron squinted. Bones and muscle rolled under his scaly flesh, accentuating the reptilian applications to his DNA that, at one moment in time, almost led to Gon killing him with his bare hands. But now, after several years of working together, he recognized these subtle movements as expressions of caution.

“You think there’s something even bigger than what the Warden already has planned? You don’t actually believe that he wants to keep everyone alive here, right?” The Ant snorted, shaking his head. “Look, Gon, we’re already in knee-deep trouble as it is. Kite’s already gonna be furious with us when we get back.”

“He’s going to have to wait a little longer, then.” Gon shrugged. “I have sources.”

“In what? The younger Zoldyck?” Meleron clicked his long tongue, fixing Gon warily. A teasing smirk rested there, barely curling the corners of his wide mouth. “This isn’t the time for fraternizing with the enemy, y’know. Do you lose your head every time a pretty thing comes ‘round?”

Gon’s replying smile was dark, haunted.

“I lose my head over other things. But maybe this time I’m not losing it, but gaining more time for us.”

He crossed his arms, glancing around their spot in a tight circle. He knew that security cameras had to be watching them, recording their movements and reading their body language cues. He’d been subjected to them enough before his arrest, and he would not let them expose any further piece of evidence that could be taken from his brief moments alone with his allies. The smug looks that had taken over the members of the Sanctuary Consul as he was placed in plasma cuffs only made this theory more prominent in his mind.

“Look.” He bit his lip. “I’m learning. Gathering what I can, like Kite wanted us to. Killua doesn’t know what we know. And I trust him. So far, even if he won’t admit it, I think he trusts me too. He’s smart, and capable, and he has a lot of respect here, but a lot of people also don’t like him.” He tilted his head. “I’m thinking that maybe Kite would want us to bring back someone like that.”

Meleoron’s jaw dropped. “Wha—no. Absolutely not. You can’t even consider this—”

“Think about it.” Gon leaned forward, his smile all the more captivating in its secrecy. “The more I learn about the Sanctuary, the more convinced I am.”

He turned, directing his companion’s attention to the curve in the corridor, where it led to the simple gathering of residents conversing over coffee and talking behind printed newspaper clippings. They relished their secret little bubbles of simultaneous socialization and privacy, lost enough in their own worlds to not pay attention to the former prisoners of their own home watching them, observing them, picking them apart for what they were.

He hadn’t noticed before, just how inseparable these people seemed on first glance, and yet, how undeniably selfish they all were. Unlike his allies back in Central Pointe, these people would give each other away in a heartbeat if it meant they could be kept safe from the dangers of the Burnside.

_And beyond…_

“These people?” Gon tilted his head, further drawn into the image. “They don’t know anything. They trust the Warden indefinitely. Think about it like this, if you have to. Killua won’t suspect anything unless we _let him_. And as of right now I don’t plan on breaking that trust with him anytime soon.”

Killua was incredibly tough to read in some moments, and yet, very simple in others. He’d caught the younger Zoldyck pouring over private studies and notes several times in the supposed privacy of his bunker, thumb pressed to his lips and reading glasses further accentuating how many times he’d glimpsed over the same countless rules and texts. His shoulders were broad and perfect for carrying heavy weaponry if needed, but they were tight with many anxieties and concerns that left him in constant chasing of his youth.

These details were not ones that Gon had expected when first introducing himself to Killua. He’d done so many times, hoping to gain at least a small foothold in their conversations, only to be rebuffed moments later.

“Well, don’t stall too much.” Meleoron focused on him carefully. “That Ikalgo guy is gonna push me into the barracks with the other youngbloods. He’s smarter than he looks.”

“He’s another Ant,” said Gon, nodding, “and he’s…”

_A problem. Definitely a problem._

Despite Ikalgo being a potential issue, he was an important puzzle piece in the plans that Gon was forming. He needed to be patient, and move along with the fudnamentals of each factor of this mission. Kite’s many lessons, one that trained him to understand these patterns on an instinctual level, to feel in wavelengths down to the marrow of his bones, made the process seem far from impossible.

“Gather intel when you’re with him.” Gon’s smile was full of mischief, caught between his current discussion with Meleoron and his own plans for the upcoming weeks. “If anything, talking to an Ant will lead us closer to the files. If the Warden doesn’t have them, then, maybe Ikalgo will know where they are.”

The chameleon Ant’s tail swished. With movements like that, Gon was reminded very quickly on how Meleoron was, indeed, part reptile.

He couldn’t remember the last time Meleoron had broken down into tears, clawing at the ground, desperate for answers behind the human memories that were forcefully taken from him.

Was Ikalgo similar?

Gon pushed away the concerns, the curiosities that would only serve as a distraction. There were too many shadows lingering in this place for any corner to remain unchecked. Having Zushi here was pivotal, as well, to earn some form of trust from the other youngbloods who would undoubtedly bombard him with questions. Meleoron was capable of conversing with the only other Ant in the Sanctuary who wasn’t blinded by bloodthirst and surrendered to radiation.

Gon was eager. Energetic. Expectant. He was ready to launch into another confrontation of some kind, to exlpore the Burnside yet again. The thought sent an electric tingle through him, sparking goosebumps, peppering his senses with imaginary glimpses into the plains of scarlet dust, metal and decaying bone.

Perhaps, Killua would be willing to indulge him on his need to explore. To learn.

Their library was in dire need of more books, after all.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

“That’s a completely baseless idea.”

“Aw, you wound me, Killua.” Gon laughed, stepping aside as the other teen knocked his shoulder against him, one hand tightly clasped around a coffee mug. “I was only making a suggestion. Think about it. The Burnside is probably changing, right? We have to be out on another patrol soon, anyway—”

“ _No_.” Killua turned on his heel to face him, a frustrated twitch in his brow. “We’ve already gone far enough. We’ve moved the border past where Bisky requested. If we go any farther we could be tripping into Death Whisper nests, and…” he paused, momentarily stricken, before shaking his head and fixing his attention onto Gon once more. “We’re not doing that again.”

His voice dropped, cold and layered in indifference. If Gon were anyone else, he would have backed away from the subject and bothered him about patrolling later, when Killua was in a more stable mindset. Something dragged on the younger Zoldyck’s consciousness, something that pulled Gon forward, and made him curious enough to consider questioning.

Their failed mission several months prior led to many untimely deaths.

They were young, frozen in time, left to bleed into the sand and dust. Gon had seen far worse, on strangers and friends alike, against rad-beasts and deadly Ants who were completely lost to unseemly circumstances. The people responsible for corrupting animals and humans to an extent where Death Whispers, ghouls, Red Ghouls and many more could exist sickened him greatly—twisted his stomach into knots, serating the curiosities that made him flounder.

“I’m not asking you to put anyone else in danger.”

Killua paused, closing the folder in his hands. He turned once more to Gon, exasperated. Exhausted.

“Look, Freecss. I don’t know what kind of impression you’ve gotten over the last time we’ve talked about this, but all of our missions? They’re strictly for what we can allow. I’m not going to have anyone else’s blood on my hands, especially when the situation can be avoided. They were young. And now—don’t you get it? Now, they’re _gone_.”

Gon dipped his head, thoughtful. “I know that, Killua—”

“Stop calling me by my first name.”

“I’m asking for just the two of us to go out there, then. You and me. No one would be put in danger. If anything happens, it would be on us.”

Gon straightened, ready for the onslaught of Killua’s sure anger. He was prepared for any reaction, as if awaiting the ticking of an atomic bomb, seconds before it was unleashed onto an unsuspecting country. He was smart enough, and experienced enough, to read the cues of his opponents and allies alike, and Killua would be no exception.

But Killua did not look angry when he looked over to him this time. No, the shadow that fell over his pale face, that stretched his lips into a frown, was not borne of anger at all.

“From wherever you’re from,” Killua said, “do you have to look after anyone?’

Gon blinked, perplexed. “I—well, yeah—”

“Then you should know better.” Killua’s teeth grit, the tension visible behind the lines of his jaw. “Look, I know that we have to expand. I get that you’re appealing to Bisky’s good graces and gaining something from the consul. I’m not sure what, exactly, yet, and I’m still suspicious of you. But…” he glanced away. “None of our future missions will ever work if we try to keep expanding, when it’s possible that we’re just getting everyone killed for no reason.”

Killua’s hands fell to his sides, fingers twitching, as if itching to hold onto something that wasn’t there.

“This isn’t for no reason.”

Killua snorted. “Okay, sure. I’ll bite.” He turned to Gon, still wary, still cautious. Like a rabbit ready to flee, or a coyote prepared to pounce. Sometimes, Gon wasn’t able to read which was more accurate. “Why bother me now, about this? You haven’t even mentioned anything specific.”

Gon grinned, bright and pestering. “Your library is too small.”

Killua blinked at him. “… What?”

“Your library’s too small.” Gon checked his cuticles, smirking mischievously at the way Killua followed his motions, blue eyes misty with curiosity. “But I know of where we can get a lot more books. Or even, just a better way to retrieve information. You want happier residents, right? And, maybe there’s more there too. Better volumes, more things to read for the little kids…”

“You want us to risk our lives in extending our border in the Burnside… for books.”

Gon laughed, shaking his head. “Well, when you put it like that—”

“That’s…” Killua’s lips quirked. “… Huh. No one’s ever brought that up before.”

Gon was seconds away from beaming out of pure, childish excitement. There were several options for them to explore if they ever went to one of the local archival buildings or libraries, and they were not too far from Central Pointe. He would be able to provide new information to the Sanctuary, and Killua would undoubtedly find him more impressive and more trustworthy than now.

“I’m not promising anything. I have to go over details with Ikalgo—”

“Oh, it would be just us!” Gon locked onto Killua, reading the intensity there. He wanted to brawl with him again, and see just how easily this other male could match him step for step, punch for punch. “You wanted to make sure that we had a better way of getting out there without putting younger lives at risk, right?”

Killua raised an eyebrow. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I know what I said.” He stroked his chin, pondering. “Look, again, I can’t promise anything. But considering how reckless you are, yet…” he rolled his eyes, “how intuitive you can be, surprisingly… I don’t see any enormous risk in going out there. But Ikalgo will have to know we’ve left. Don’t think I’m dumb enough to leave the Sanctuary with just you without notifying anyone here.”

Gon’s smile spread wider. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He mock-saluted. “I can see you’re making the right decisions here, _sir_.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Killua brushed him off, though the slightest edge of a grin was undoubtedly there. “If this is anything more than just what you’ve mentioned, believe me,” his eyes sharpened, “you won’t be joining me back here. Is that clear?”

Gon laughed, unbothered. “Glad to hear it, Killua!”

“For the love of—do _not_ call me by my first name! We’re not friends!”

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. What were you saying, _Killua_?”

Killua slapped a hand over his face, groaning in misery.

“You know,” said Gon, bumping the other teen with his hip, “you’re a bit of a grump. Some of my friends back in Central Pointe would probably ask you to start doing some aromatherapy.” He grinned, satisfaction bubbling in his chest once Killua pulled away his hand and glared icily at him. “You still owe me coffee, by the way. I’m a little hurt that you kept avoiding me after I offered to get it for you and everything.”

Killua snorted. “You just press a button on a machine and it makes it for you, dumbass. Not like you’re majorly stretching a leg or anything.”

Gon considered this, leaning forward. Killua matched his stare, unwilling to move.

“So, if I somehow made it myself _without_ pressing any fancy buttons, would you have some with me?”

“No.”

“But _Killua_ , I’d be putting in so much effort when the easiest solution is right there—”

“Does it look like I care?” Killua tilted his head, though for once, amusement sparkled in his eyes. He glanced away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide the smallest traces of a smile. “Seriously, you’re… such an idiot. Get a move on. I’m sure Bisky, or Knov, or even Morel will be looking for you right about now.”

Gon chuckled, shaking his head. “You always want to get rid of me so soon. Maybe I want to have a real conversation with you.”

“Yeah?”

Killua crossed his arms, his body language shifting. Instead of acting like a perturbed porcupine, he was starting to lean more casually, propping his back against the wall and watching Gon with a glare that many others would have found intimidating.

“Want a _real conversation_? Fine, then. Tell me what Central Pointe is.”

Gon straightened, his mask of confidence shattered. His muscles tensed in reflex, though there weren’t any monsters nearby. Not a single Red Ghoul or Death Whisper could be seen trampling through these hallways, and yet Killua’s words struck him like an ice-cold knife. It wouldn’t be wise, to talk about Central Pointe. Kite would feel more than betrayed if he ever let those details slip, even to someone he needed to help learn to trust him.

“I can’t…”

Killua studied him for a moment. The intensity was admirable, though Gon didn’t enjoy feeling vulnerable under that stare. It was a look he challenged daily, and yet, when this question was fired towards him he hardly found it feasible for him to find a reasonable reply.

“Can’t tell me?” He shrugged. “That’s what I thought.” The coldness in his voice only helped accelerate Gon’s blood pressure. “Let’s keep this in mind, alright? Don’t ask me about anything, especially invasive questions about who I am, what I like, and what I intend to do, when you clearly can’t do the same.”

Gon blinked, his mouth opening and closing. Gaping like a fish.

It had been years, since he was the one left at a loss for words.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

Gon wasn’t always meant to keep secrets.

Meeting Kite changed the foundations of what he was raised to believe. Losing Mito, losing his father—neither of those details motivated him the same way Kite had. His teacher directed him towards newer skills and objectives that divded him cleanly from the natural brutishness and mischief that clung to him from the moment he was born. He was designed to explore and embark on dangerous quests, and perhaps this was why Kite and his allies gravitated towards him, why they allowed him to join them when the Aether Waves tipped the world on its axis.

For days, he didn’t speak to Killua.

He couldn’t explain the shakiness in his fingers when he would catch the other’s glance, even when the two of them were often paired together for sparring. Bisky’s loud instructions and criticisms faded into white noise, and he found himself venting his energy on other unsuspecting participants when Killua was particularly ruthless. Normally he loved the challenge, the competitive lilt to Killua’s every mannerism and movement that motivated him to unspeakable ends.

_Don’t ask me about anything…_

Gon sucked in a breath, throat dry.

_When you clearly can’t do the same._

Why was this bothering him? Or was it?

The temperatures grew colder in the Sanctuary. Extra blankets were passed around from resident to resident, some fearing that the over-compensation was for the fluctuation in heat from the outside. Bisky never detailed any of these changes in her private meetings with Gon, and none of the other consul members ever bothered to acknowledge him. They greeted him with barely a nod, skeptical of the brace around his wrist or ankle, and not willing to pay him any mind.

One particular meeting in the later months pulled Gon and several other monitored residents into a lower cusp of the meeting chamber, the exact same place where Killua saved his life from potential exile. Or even execution.

It was here, shoulders bumping between Meleoron and Zushi, knuckles rubbed raw and bleeding, and nails nervously chewed down to the cuticle, when he saw the Warden for the second time.

Zushi was a quivering mess beside him. Half of his mind seemed constantly ingrained in apprehension, while the other was remarkably gifted in combat and instinct. He was a formidable sparring partner for Gon, and one of the more efficient trackers and collectors from Kite’s following in Central Pointe. As a slightly younger recruit, he hardly seemed like the typical soldier material that matched the bravado of most of the top-tier guardsmen from within the Sanctuaries. And yet, in many ways, he was irreplaceable.

Currently, however, he was sweating profusely. Shaking like a startled rodent.

“Why are we here?” he whispered.

The Warden stepped up to the podium, a willowy phantom that hardly seemed capable of sharing the same blood as his younger brother. He was dressed in a pristinely sewn military uniform, black accented with silver buttons layering up the middle. Gold thread lined the cuffs and detailed the broad width of his shoulders. His skin was starkly pale even under these distracting lights, though this never seemed to change.

Gon blinked. “Huh?”

Zushi sighed. “Gon, you’ve been zoning out for a few days. What’s going on with you?”

Gon nudged him. “I’m not zoning out. Just thinking.”

He watched the Warden closely, scoping out any possible weak links. If he were ever to approach him, he would have to rely on more than the strength in his fists and his easy handling of most weaponry to strike him. Though something about his presence oozed experience and a stealthier strength that wouldn’t normally be expected, or found, within the posh interior of these Sanctuaries.

“Uh-huh. Not zoning out.” Zushi mumbled under his breath. “You’re either zoning out or staring at the younger Zoldyck brother…”

Gon snapped out of his staring and turned to Zushi, blinking.

“Huh?”

“It’s true.” Zushi shrugged. “You stare at him like he’s… _Adonis_ , or something.”

“Nah, not Adonis.” Gon chuckled at the mere thought of Killua even being offered something as silly as modeling to bear the image of any Greek statue. “I mean, he’s kind of a big part of why we’re here, Zushi. Have to talk to him a lot and gain his trust so that he’ll give us more information. Kite said—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zushi turned to him. “Kite says a lot of things, doesn’t he? I doubt he really expected us to be figured out so easily when we first came here…”

Gon stiffened, his words registering like a vicious sledgehammer. Fists curling around his knees, Gon heaved in a breath, and nudged Zushi with his shoe.

“Kite trusted us to—”

“To _what_ , Gon?”

Zushi shook his head, his words falling between them quickly enough to break the quiet around them. The atmosphere enclosed around the audience, the Warden’s current speech filtering through every eardrum in unintelligible messages.

“Do you really think that Kite thought we were going to get caught?” He ran his fingers through his hair, still buzzed down to the scalp, his youthful eyes wide and glazed over, unreadable. “That’s _crazy_ , Gon. You and Mel might be all… I dunno, wrapped up in this, but this is making me nervous. How do you know that the Warden doesn’t suspect what you’re trying to do? And you want to trust the Zoldyck brother, of all people?”

Gon’s brow furrowed. “You’re going to have to trust me, okay?”

He scratched his scalp. He was doing exactly what he expected to do. He knew they were going to be caught, and Kite’s instructions gave them leeway for the Warden most likely capturing them; the encrypted files had to be in his possession. With them, they could return to Central Pointe with exactly what their leader needed.

“I do trust you. That’s not what I’m saying.”

Before Gon could reply, the static of a microphone blitzed through the chamber. The sound snapped off in terrible wails, shocking Gon’s internal system. These sharper noises were difficult for him to process, and to hear them in such a broad, echolocating space made him almost curl over the edge of the support beam and vomit onto the tiles.

“Some of the consul members have recovered something… peculiar from the outside.”

The Warden’s voice slicked like poison, slimy and suspicious. Gon briefly wondered how anyone could listen to a person with this voice and see it as one to trust.

“The temperatures have considerably changed. As expected from the Burnside, the rise in heat could be fatal on first step. As a result, you will all be restricted into the tunnels until further notice. No patrols will be going out, and no scoutings will be offered. The herbal garden, medical bay, botanical sectors and cafeterias will only be accessing emergency rations if we are unable to leave within three months’ time. That is all.”

Gon frowned. The room buzzed in light conversation, the humming reverberating through steel and aluminum. He considered asking Zushi what he thought of the announcement, though talking to him at the moment seemed out of the question if he wanted to gain any new insight.

Within the hour, he was permitted entry into the cafeteria sector. It was eerily quiet, not one person in sight. Several rectangular trays were still open with hot, steaming soup, beans, and rice, separated into portions and accessible to anyone who wandered in. Twin rows of buttons and levers were installed into the adjacent wall, labeled with the names of each item.

He pulled out a chair, and stopped. For a moment, he was unsure on whether or not he wanted to sit and eat, or sit and think. He couldn’t do both at the same time. If he tried, he would be left with cold food, an empty stomach, and a series of scatterbrained thoughts that never led to the same conclusion. Some results were more convoluted than the last.

With a heavy sigh, he lowered into his seat. His head boiled with a headache, tension wrapped around his forehead and temples like a tightened headband. He lowered his chin on the table, folding his arms in front of him. Nothing was of interest on the opposite end of the room, and his stomach began to rumble with the smell of decent food wafting through his nostrils.

A heavy _clank_ startled him. He jerked back, blinking incredulously at the ceramic mug placed in front of his nose. Inside was a steady ripple of acrid black coffee.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Gon’s jaw almost dropped. Killua Zoldyck glared down at him, one hand on his hip while the other kept him balanced on the edge of the table. Gon hadn’t noticed from the gathering in the consul chamber, but he was dressed very similarly to his Warden brother: sleek onyx-black military outfit with gold trim and silver buttons. It was an outfit that most likely never saw the light of the Burnside, or perhaps, even the world before then.

“Wow.” Gon tilted his head. “You look really good.”

Killua flushed, and snapped his head away. “S-Shut up. It’s a stupid outfit. I promised Bisky I’d wear it just for… publicity’s sake, I guess. Sanctuary residents like it when the two Zoldycks are out there, looking like they’re the same person.”

Gon hummed at this, thoughtful. He considered the coffee, and grinned.

“So, is this our date? _Really_? What changed your mind?”

“Nothing.” Killua pulled out a chair, sitting beside him.

Gon shifted at this. He hadn’t been this close to the Zoldyck before. Usually he kept a safe margin unless it called for life or death. The incident with the Death Whisper left them both dropping their temporary barriers, and led to the deaths of many young teens—children, even, that did not deserve to leave this world that early. In some ways, Gon saw it as a blessing. He was positive Killua thought differently.

“This doesn’t change anything.” He crossed his arms. “I usually come here after the late meetings. No one’s usually here. That coffee was for me, originally.” He raised an eyebrow at Gon, tense. “But something tells me you could use it more, Freecss.”

There was something different about Killua tonight, Gon reasoned. An air of exhaustion hung about him, purpling his eyelids and shadowing the narrow curve of his cheekbones. He carried himself confidently, slouching like a young teenager when he desired and acknowledging him with fierce dignity in their passing in the hallways, though he never seemed so…

“I have nightmares too, you know.”

Killua straightened, spine lapsing like a bowstring. He paused in his ministrations, thumbs scraping the edge of the table. Hostility took over his motions, his face paling into a snowy hue.

“… I doubt they’re the same.”

They were dark words. A warning.

Gon palmed the handle of the coffee mug.

“Well, no one has the same two dreams—”

“I’m not in the mood to deal with you being a smartass, Freecss.”

Gon nodded at this, understanding.

“Sometimes tea can help. Wouldn’t really think of coffee as a nightmare elixir, though.” He smirked at Killua’s annoyed frown. “But in all seriousness, I don’t think anyone can live during this time without having nightmares. Everyone who died because of the Aether Waves are gone in another world, or frozen in the dirt. But us?” He circled the rim of the mug with his index finger, mind wandering. Lost. “We live with it. My aunt Mito used to tell me that stories from our past try to find a place in the future when we reject them.”

Killua scoffed, his gaze pinned blankly to the wall. Something stirred in his features, undeterred and crossed between peaceful and troubled.

“That makes no sense.”

“But maybe that’s why it makes _more_ sense.”

Killua’s lips twitched. “You sound like an _Alice in Wonderland_ character.”

Gon placed his hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth seeping through his fingers.

“Well, you sound like Mr. Darcy.”

“I—what?” Killua snapped to him, gaping. “I—you—I don’t sound like that snooty asshole! Are you joking?”

Gon smacked his hand on the table, letting loose a boisterous laugh.

“Oh, oh man, you should see your face!”

“Fuck you!”

“I didn’t peg you for a Jane Austen fan, _Kil-lu-a_.”

Killua crossed his arms and glared away from him. His throat bobbed.

“It’s… it’s not like I religiously read Jane Austen or anything. _Pride and Prejudice_ is just… well-known, here. Wasn’t my pick to put in the shelves.” He glared. "And you're one to talk! You're the idiot who brought up Mr. Darcy of all people... talk about cliché."

Gon hid his smirk behind the mug, finally taking his first few sips. The taste was acidic on his tongue, though he didn’t mind.

For once, he was engaging in conversation outside of Central Pointe that genuinely interested him.

Even after several minutes, Killua’s blush only turned darker.

“It’s—it’s not like we have a big selection anyway, you know.”

“I know. Because your library is the size of an airport pamphlet.”

“Oh my god—you know what? Seriously, screw you, Freecss. You _know_ that it would be dumb if I specifically asked my asshole brother to make sure that our _book rental space_ was big enough to maybe fit a small family of cats.” Killua laughed lightly under his breath, though it was a dry sound, not one fitting the sudden light swallowing up his handsome face. “Then again, that’s probably exactly what you’d expect.”

Gon frowned at this. “Expect what?”

Killua shifted in his seat, his smile falling. “You’re joking, right?”

Gon noticed the change in the atmosphere sweeping over his body in a phantom grip before anything clicked in his mind. His instincts told him to shift closer to Killua, to provide some sort of leverage that the other man could use to bolster the story he would most likely need to tell. Usually, younger children and older friends alike would listen to him intently, and reveal the barest depths of their hearts and souls for him to appreciate, nurture, and return to them.

He valued these stories more than anything. Maybe it would have been different if the Aether Waves never struck, if the world had never burned and turned over on its side. He wondered this sometimes, in the privacy of his own bedroom, where he could escape the talk of religion and wisdom shrouding the freezing nights in Central Pointe. The tighter he would wrap the blanket around his shoulders, the more aware he was of the dreadful threats looming outside the door.

“People don’t trust me, here.” Killua waved his arm aimlessly. “They think I want the worst for them.”

Gon almost jerked backwards at the mere concept. How could the Sanctuary residents not trust the Warden’s own brother? Killua was undoubtedly dedicated, and sought to defend them with every step and decision they took within the confines of these tunnels. Bisky herself was adamant on vouching for Killua, complimenting and criticizing only when both were well-deserved.

“… Why?”

Killua propped an elbow on the table, placing his chin his hand.

“Lots of reasons.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Gon frowned. “I mean… it’s no secret that your family has a bit of a reputation. But a lot of people really liked what you did, and what you’re doing now, for the rest of us who are alive.” He shrugged. “The Sanctuaries are here because of you, aren’t they?”

“The Sanctuaries were put here by my parents. My father, more specifically.” He rollled his eyes. “He didn’t care about the people inside. Neither of them did…”

He trailed off, words hanging in the air like water dripping from the end of a faucet.

Gon wondered if he should test these boundaries. Carefully, he lowered his head, struggling to meet Killua’s forlorn gaze.

“You’re remembering something.”

He spoke too softly, almost to a point where he couldn’t hear his own words. They rolled off his tongue before he could stop them, and they seemed to be enough to jolt Killua awake from his stupor. He stared down at the tabletop, and then slowly trained his eyes back towards Gon. The hostility that brimmed in those eyes were gone, replaced with a stormy depth that housed many secrets and untold stories.

There was a strange depth to Killua that far surpassed that of his brother. It lingered in the way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he handled his missions… and Gon wanted to slap himself for not noticing these patterns before. He’d determined that the younger Zoldyck was someone to be constantly respected, if only feared in terms of respecting his status as the successor to his sibling.

“It’s nothing.”

Killua exhaled, fingers drumming on the table.

“Is it, though?”

Killua paused, his body wiring tight. A glimmer of annoyance flashed on his face, curling the corners of his mouth into either a frown or a smile. Gon wasn’t sure what it would be, since it vanished the moment he wanted to ask if his acquaintance wanted to talk about it.

He didn’t understand this sudden pull to ask him these questions. It was far past the understanding he had before, of making sure that his role in speaking to Killua and earning his trust was never undermined. But the need to pester him for answers, to search past the layers of this stranger that intrigued Gon in ways he couldn’t describe, kept him glued to that seat. Eager to learn, memorize, and decode.

“This isn’t your business.”

“Well, you were the one who brought it up.”

Killua eyed him warily. “Do you just, exist to pester me?”

“Maybe.” Gon smirked. “But the great thing about me is that I don’t really judge people for what they tell me. You could tell me you were the lovechild of a rhinoceros and an alien and I’d still hold back from judging!”

Killua stared at him, nose scrunching up in that.

“A… what?”

“Just an example.”

Killua grit his teeth, but did not reply. His fingers skimmed the table every now and then, as if seeking anchor in something that didn’t fully exist. Gon watched him, sipping his coffee, brain foggy and otherwise drowned in a caffeinated haze. He wanted to offer some of it to Killua, considering that the other teen brought it over to him to begin with.

“I’m going to the surface. Tonight.”

Killua hesitated, and finally turned his body to face Gon directly. The power he’d noticed before returned, if only for a second, to illuminate the natural boldness that a Zoldyck was designed to emulate. He wasn’t moving from his seat, or even turning to assess Gon’s reaction, but the undeniable tenseness to his shoulders and arms gave way to far more than intended.

Gon considered this, weighed the gravity of this admission. Many potential scenarios could be founded with this information. Was Killua planning something against his brother? Was he upset about the announcement to restrict the dwellers inside the tunnels? It made perfect sense, at least in Gon’s expectations, for the rising temperatures in the Burnside to push them underground.

“I haven’t told anyone.” Killua bit his lip, his attention sorely focused on many objects in the room, all turned away from Gon. Separate, yet intact. “You’re coming with me.”

Gon almost spat out his coffee.

“You’re—what?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t want this.” Killua glared at him. “I can’t… I’m not going to tell you why. But it’s suicide to head out of the Sanctuary right now. We’ll be taking the spare elevator in the northern corridor, all the way on the other side of the vault. From there, we’ll be climbing up a passageway that Ikalgo and I used to take when we were younger.” He hesitated, as if now understanding the limitations he would need to practice. “My brother has forbidden us from entering the outside. And… I need to know why.”

Gon studied him, fascinated. “But he said—”

“I know what he said.” Killua crossed his arms. “Illumi likes to play mind games. He’ll say what he wants, just to put the rest of us at ease. But that trick doesn’t fool me anymore. I’m not a child.”

Gon steadied himself, hoping the buzzing excitement in his lungs would calm down before he had the chance to reject this idea. He itched to explore the caverns surrounding the Sanctuary tunnels, which would undoubtedly be far more carved-in and polished than the pipitelines where he was once stationed. He wondered if there was a chance, for him to escape on his lonesome to acquire the information he needed. Suspicions on where the encrypted files were being kept still latched onto the image of the Sanctuary entrance, the gears locked in place, an army of Red Ghouls waiting on the other side…

“Even if the temperature’s rising, as he claims…” Killua shrugged. “There’s more to it. There has to be. So I’m going to check it out myself, and you’re coming with me.”

He turned to Gon, his aura pulsing with authority and strength. But underneath it lied something untouched, wrapped in cobwebs of a memory long gone and threatening to breach what he wished to say. The rich glow shrouding his body and twisting apart the anguish in his eyes told an entirely different story from one of suspicion and concern.

In Gon’s experiences, he’d met many people like this. Unaware strangers trapped in conflict and darkness, their countless secrets, both conscious and unconscious, written in their own blood.

“He could be lying,” he offered.

Killua grit his teeth. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

They didn’t say another word, their new objectives fresh on their minds.

And Gon couldn’t begin to describe the excitement pulsing through him in rivers of fire and energy. Just what could this younger Zoldyck be expecting, for him to be going against his own brother’s direct orders?

The journey to the lockers, where Killua handled multiple pieces of armor and clothing with incredible care, was swift and silent. Gon glanced over his shoulder every ten to fifteen seconds, just to be sure no one was spotting them. Cameras flickered about, twitching with red plastic nozzles, though none of them seemed to truly be watching them. If anything, they would capture timecards of their scampering in the hallways, but it would be nonsensical for him to assume that Killua wouldn’t be aware of it.

Killua shoved protective gear into Gon’s arms. A familiar bracelet with a holographic control panel vibrated to life, nearly glittering with the abundance of tiles moving about on the screen. He blinked in awe, tempted to fiddle with the new mechanic, but stopped when Killua slapped his hand away.

“Quit messing around and put it on. We won’t have much time before Bisky or someone else notices we’re gone.” He pointed to the cameras scanning the vicinity. “And don’t worry about those. If they couldn’t catch Ikalgo and I when we were only kids, well,” he trailed off, “then there’s nothing they can do about us moving out now.”

Gon nodded, willing to take his words into consideration. Without another word, he turned his back to Killua, and stripped down from his gray jumpsuit. He pulled on the new garment with ease, colored a deep reddish-brown for camouflage against the scorched rock and sand of the Burnside. He slipped on the utility belt, clicking several buttons in place and watching in fascination as the many links came together in a rumble of steel, velcro and rubber.

“What are these for?”

He pulled on one of the accompanying gloves. The palm was slashed with many cuts, like that of a knife, or a Chimera Ant talon. Meleoron would be able to deduce where these were from…

“These are a little older. Hold on.”

Killua stopped in front of him, taking his hand and running his thumb over the thick lacerations around the knuckles.

“Weird. The material should be both velcro and leather.”

Gon blinked, a quiver rushing through his forearms. Killua’s touch ignited something inside his chest, spurring him into tracing the deft movement of his fingers.

He chose to ignore it.

“You know your stuff,” he muttered, not entirely paying attention.

Killua’s face was washed blank with concentration.

“… Here, this should work.”

He removed a metal clasp from his belt, and attached the rings to his knuckles. Gon flexed them in wonder, watching the metal reflect the faint amount of light moving in the locker unit.

“It’s not much to cover the shredded parts, but it should protect you from the basic stuff. Natural elements, wind resistance, sun damage, all of that. We’ll only be out there for a few minutes, anyway.”

Gon frowned.

“Why would sun damage matter if we’re going at night…”

Killua sighed. “Honestly, you’d be surprised.”

Gon found this odd, since he knew that he lived on the surface and thrived there for several years after the Aether Waves. He never found shelter in the Sanctuaries, and not once did the temperatures fluctuate as drastically as the one secluded area of the Burnside. It was almost as if a barrier was erected around the large square that swallowed up the Sanctuary entrances, one made of climactic change and an atomsphere constantly at a standstill.

He rubbed his jaw, focusing on Killua closely.

_Killua seems oddly confident about his brother being wrong…_

If they were incorrect, it was highly probable that their skin would melt off within a minute of standing outside the tunnel entrance.

“Okay.”

Killua finished his changing, zipping up the front of his protective jumpsuit. He adjusted the thick mechanical collar around his neck, attached with a breathing filter, and a variety of other gadgets that extended to wind around his cranium. He wiped down his bants, pulled on his boots, and stood back up to test the durability of the outfit. Bloodstains and rust streaked along the legs, up his back, and splashing in handprints along his shoulders.

“How many people died in that outfit?”

Killua froze, processing. Even with his back turned to him, Gon could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

“Don’t know.” He adjusted his mask, the filter stretching and fastening around his mouth. He blinked at Gon, turning on his heel to gesture with a wave toward the gaping entrance to the locker space.

It was a rectangular aluminum door with password-protected key codes. Gon had witnessed several prepared scouts incorrectly inputting the codes, only for Ikalgo to hop over and show them what it was supposed to be. The doors would slide open simultaneously, revealing a gaping black hole curving into tunnels unknown unless specific parties were assigned; Gon never thought he would have the opportunity to breach this entrance.

His fist curled, seeking the grip of a gun. Would he need one? He couldn’t remember the last time he left somewhere, especially for a mission objective, without any firearms.

“Hey.”

Gon snapped his head over to his companion. Killua’s lips were tightly pursed, a knowing frown like a crack in a plane of marble.

“Follow my lead. And no,” he started, as if reading Gon’s mind, “we won’t need any weapons.”

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

Clanging metal and rivulets of soil and brick melded into stone. Their surroundings crumbled into harsher, crumbled dust, leading to the wide scope of the same groundfloor where Killua, Ikalgo and several other young trainees prepared themselves to venture out into the Burnside.

He frowned, his goggles swallowing up the faint traces of light. Mammoth-sized bulbs were implanted in the cavernous walls, providing helpful, yet less intrusive light for passengers leaving in the morning or at night. Though with the blood-red sun constantly hanging in the sky, it became more and more difficult each day to determine when the sun would vanish to make way for the moon. Gon was younger when he paid attention to those details; by the time he was sixteen and killing his first Red Ghoul, he had little time to focus on the more trivial matters.

Killua strode ahead of him, cautious and aware of his surroundings. Silver-pale hair was pushed out beneath his goggles. He walked like a ghost in this place, approaching the rickety elevator with confidence and hesitation rolled into one human being.

Gon followed him.

A gust of wind flew through the wire railings. He squinted through the protective lenses, pressing several buttons on his watch. A hologram projected in front of him, showing large green numbers. They ticked into a clock form. He pressed another button.

“There we go.”

“What are you doing?” Killua called, impatiently standing beside the elevator switch. “We’ll only have a few minutes before people start noticing!”

The hologram changed into a different set of numbers.

Gon blinked. “Killua, these machines are updated pretty regularly, right?”

“Of course they are. Every month.” Killua rolled his thumb over the adjustment dial on the side of his headgear. “Why?”

“Well…” Gon scratched his scalp. “I thought your brother said it’s too hot for us to go outside?”

“He did.” Killua turned away from him, unsure. “There’s… I’m not sure why he did. But yeah, that’s what he claimed. The consul vouched for that decision, too. Including Bisky.”

Gon nodded. “Well… according to this watch you gave me, the temperature’s actually below freezing.”

Killua stared him blankly, clearly not believing him. His entire countenance changed, a sudden dawning changing his stern frown into an expression that was more considerable, more neutral. He glanced around him, and gestured for Gon to join him in the elevator.

Too driven and curious to disobey, Gon jogged up to him, and quickly backed to the edge of the metal cage. Wires rolled and scraped in the cavern walls as the machine levitated them towards the upper ground level, where they would find themselves face-to-face with the Burnside.

It only took forty-five seconds to a minute for the elevator to reach the top. And yet, each second felt bloated, like a balloon ready to burst. Killua’s anxiety spiked, and it was impossible for Gon not to notice when the other man struggled in this claustrophobic space. His ankles shifted, fingers tightly gripping both elbows and burrowing into the fabric.

A gust of wind greeted them, slapping like cold napkins on Gon's skin.

He opened his mouth, ready to intake another gulp of fresh air. The cooling touch was shocking at first, leaving a sharp tingle on his tongue.

There was only one door left, barring them from the outside. The wind grew harsher, whistling between creaks in the wood, stone and metal.

Killua approached the door, lost in his own world. Gon locked onto his back, cautious in fear of the door swinfging open and a potentially more powerful gust hitting them both. With his hand on his belt, he slowly crept forward, and pulled off his goggles.

Killua turned the knob, and let the door fly open.

Gon’s jaw dropped.

“… How… how is this—”

“I knew it.” Killua’s fists clenched. “Come on. We’re going out there.”

The Burnside was completely covered in snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, guys. Seriously. You have helped make this chapter possible.
> 
> The ball is starting to roll...

**Author's Note:**

> YAY OR NAY? I MUST KNOW. :D 
> 
> I loved writing this. This universe is so fun and I'm so excited to share it with you all. More worldbuilding and MORE GOOOONNNN SOOOOOOOON because I love him and we all love him and he is going to knock your socks off.


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